


Dream, Gérard

by Shadowlurker13



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Gen, Personal Growth, adventure fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 63,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowlurker13/pseuds/Shadowlurker13
Summary: And then everyone went off to the Patternfall War at the end of book five of the series... but what happened to Gérard during his regency?  Did they just hand him the keys and say 'be good with our world'?  I think not.  And maybe - just maybe - there's a lot more to the 'big guy' than he usually lets on... (in-canon extension set during Courts of Chaos.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Dream, Gérard**

_Author's note: This completely unexpected story idea actually germinated with a completely unexpected, disarming bashful smile…and a private personal challenge as a writer, since this is so different from what I usually work on, or, indeed, am interested in at all in certain respects. And a potential protagonist that pointed out to me that I was being unusually narrow-minded: 'Not everyone can be good at what you like!' Fair enough, m'lord; we'll give this one a try… (see the note at the header of 'Labyrinth of Chaos' chapter two for a minor technical note that is still pertinent here.)_

* * *

Chapter 1 – A Most Rare Vision

Stay.

The command – and from his father King Oberon, no less, who he had believed up until just a few days ago to be dead or irreparably lost – had caught Gérard completely off-guard. The strongest of the sons of Rilga the Short-lived had stood in so many skirmishes against the ghastly invaders from the Black Road, had lead charge upon charge against them, hurrying so many demons back to the Abyss from which they ultimately hailed, dispatching countless adversaries single-handedly (sometimes literally), that when the news of the preemptive war with Chaos near the Courts had surfaced, Gérard had been all but chomping at the proverbial bit to be going, to ride beside his brothers, to slaughter the enemy on their own turf alongside his cold-but-brave half-sisters; Deirdre was nearly as handy with a battleaxe as he was, for her size!

But, to his blank astonishment (and private disappointment), he was to stay behind to guard the fort, as it were. _Alone_. In a certain integral sense, the order felt highly irrational: why would not his father leave someone cannier, someone more clever, more adept at handling the realm, in control of it? Not that Gérard was stupid; in fact, he was fairly smart when it came to his own areas of interest and expertise: sailing and the sea – leading lesser men to commerce, adventure, and at times war – and matters which capitalized on his oversized physique, his favorite being wrestling for both sport and utility. He towered a full head over nearly everyone he had ever known as an adult and was well-aware of the effect his physical presence had on people, but he was generally so big-hearted, honest, and genuinely well-meaning that he was usually able to put most at their ease quick enough. But people never forgot who he was, not for one second. And he could play every bit as hard as he worked; his drinking abilities were nearly as legendary as his strength (his extensive stein collection was kept not behind glass, but hung upon a wall in a section of the soldiers' barracks in the Castle, where he both welcomed and encouraged their use), as was his speed of sobriety (or at least nominal functionality) when it was time for business again.

In short, what in Amber was Oberon thinking?! Was he thinking of anything but his beloved Pattern? Had the glowing lines of quasi-sacred Order shoved all matters other than Their repair and the necessary distraction of his enemies in order to do so, from his mind? As the prince's siblings rushed off with their own orders (Julian, his only surviving full-blood brother, was already on his way to the Chaosian frontier, of course), Gérard found himself oddly at loose ends as the very Castle seemed to empty about him. No one was spared the draft this time: every last able-bodied man in Amber was going, regardless of rank or status, along with reinforcements of allies from the Golden Circle. This was the war to end war itself, and it was a privilege and a high honor to trump to the very gates of hell to fight it. Perhaps the others hadn't considered the possibility much, but Gérard couldn't help but be quietly concerned for the sanity of those conscripted men, of those who would live to return; this was no ordinary adversary they would be facing, and while the old troops had suffered odd physical and mental effects from battling these shadow-monsters in and near Amber-proper, the prince had no doubt that their enemy's dark arcane powers were greatly amplified on their own accursed, blackened native soil. But there was nothing for it.

Resignedly striding across of the now-silent first floor sitting room that most of his family had been occupying up until just a few minutes ago, he had to slightly duck the lintel on his way out; while most of the Castle was not only opulent but spacious, many of the doors to the 'smaller' rooms had simply not been constructed for a man of his stature (to say nothing of a fair amount of the antique furniture on the grounds.) He had decided to visit the guard room, to wish the palace soldiers well before they shipped out – only a few old retainers would be left, a real skeleton crew to take care of things here – when he suddenly experienced a trump-call so strong that the broad hallway in front of him seemed to melt from his vision: it was Dworkin!

"I thought that confusion felt familiar," the ancient little hunchback teased him, his pale eyes wild but merry. "Come to Grandfather, then; I have a few minutes yet before I must be off."

There was no handclasp, no physical contact of any kind for the transport: the big man just kept on walking forward and abruptly found himself in his eccentric grandsire's hidden quarters! What was technically a top-secret prison cell had been transformed over the centuries into a regular wizard's laboratory, with a full library lining the walls (mostly; a few tomes were haphazardly scattered elsewhere), an alchemist's station on the worktable along one wall and totally littered in unidentifiable objects. Thick, messy candles and floating crystalline orbs that slowly swam about near the ceiling provided ample illumination, along with a small fireplace for warmth. And the whole ensemble was every bit as disorganized as the mind that had inhabited this room and the adjacent bedroom for ages, locked up for his own protection by his own son. Not that _that_ had worked, obviously, from this casual little display of power just now…

Gérard had never so much as laid eyes upon this locale himself let alone set foot in it, but he had heard whisper of its existence in recent years, from the guards in the dungeon who had found the curious etching in Prince Corwin's cell. The rough sketches in the stone walls had proven to be just that – sketches – but it didn't take much imagination to see their function as incredibly crude single-use trumps. One had been of this precise room…

Upon Gérard's arrival, Dworkin immediately shuffled off into the tiny connected bedroom; the prince could hear him rummaging through something, but felt no inclination to enter – especially after seeing an old boot get chucked past him through the open doorway!

"Do you need any help, Grandfather?" he ventured anyway, to be polite, daring a peek around the corner.

"No, no," the old man irritatedly muttered, "I thought I knew where I'd – ah- _hah_! Here it is!" he exclaimed, carrying his prize to the cot, setting it down. "Come on in, lad; I trust your propriety," he chuckled a little dryly. Gérard edged in, really having to duck this doorway: it couldn't have been taller than five feet!

The flattened box, which currently sat on the small, simple cot, was so black that the prince blinked twice, nearly believing his eyes were playing tricks on him, but Dworkin seemed totally nonplussed as he whispered something under his breath and the lid smoothly opened on a hinge of its own accord, before he carefully lifted out the contents: a garishly bright set of robes – neon orange and ultraviolet – an elaborate turban, and paper-thin purple-dyed leather boots that more resembled long stockings, the hide was so fine! What animal had they even been rendered from?! Upon closer inspection, Gérard discovered that they were scaled, reptilian!

"Over 10,000 years old and still good as new," the dwarf pronounced in satisfaction, smoothing the shiny fabric of the robe with his wrinkled, arthritic fingers. "I will openly admit, after this much time has passed, that this is arguably the one industry in which the Courts still surpass us; they just don't make clothing here like they do in the Old Country."

Without any ado at all the old man began to disrobe as if he were alone, and Gérard quickly ducked back out!

"I believe you were wondering, just now," Dworkin continued, as if nothing about this situation was awkward, "why your father had chosen to keep one as strong and capable as yourself this far from the battlefield, I am right?"

"Of course you are," the prince answered, even more bewildered that the dwarf had been blatantly reading his mind at long-range! "But I would hardly gainsay his orders. Especially at this stage of the game, with so much at stake!"

"You've no idea, boy," he heard the response through the open door. "In fact, that's the entire reason behind his choice."

"I'm afraid I still don't follow."

A sigh came from the room, but it sounded more fond than frustrated. "Perhaps if I explain it like this: the Courts of Chaos are like… yes… like an immense colony of carnivorous wasps, if you would think of them thus for but a moment: strong and efficient in their numbers, good at propagating and caring for their own, but providing little benefit to the Shadows surrounding them, subjugating them for animal survival. We here in Amber, in Order, are rather more like honeybees: still strong and efficient and highly hierarchal, but in contrast generally beneficent to the Shadow that emanates therefrom. But there is one vital difference beyond even that gross oversimplification: in order to function as she should, Amber _must_ have a 'queen bee', at all times, one who ensures the survival of the colony both by progeny and by power. And my son is deliberately safeguarding his strongest, healthiest, and most reliable 'queen', the one best able to stand alone if need be. Do you understand now?"

Gérard's eyes widened at the suddenly dire implications! "Does Dad really expect us to lose?! For them _all_ …to…" He couldn't even bring himself to say it!

" _I_ would not have sent them, but then again I was always in favor of fixing this problem the easy way; your father was not," Dworkin replied rather matter-of-factly. 'His way' (his audience of one knew by now) meant totally wiping out all of civilization – all the shadow-worlds, along with Amber – and completely starting over from scratch! "It will probably amount to the same thing in the end, but we agreed to try this his way first," the ancient sage shuffled out into the main room, looking for all the worlds like a psychedelic fakir! "There. How do I look?"

Several unusable adjectives shot through Gérard's mind initially; the outfit looked like something no one sane would ever be caught dead in to his eye, no matter how nice the quality of materials… which meant that he had to be charitable here: Dworkin arguably fit that category pretty comfortably.

"It's… impressive," he tried hopefully, doing his best to school the incredulity out of his voice, his expression.

The old man's steel-gray eyes shot up to meet the prince's own uncertain, concerned blue ones. "These are my old robes of office within the Courts; I felt it apropos, considering that I must visit them again in this event. Whether he lives or dies, I must drive my son to his destiny at Thelbane and beyond – a father's prerogative – before the Death Storm catches up to us."

"The _what_ storm?!" Gérard exploded, beginning to get really annoyed with the old man's random snippets of information, like none of this really mattered to him! "And what of our army's chances outside of the Courts?! Are they truly that bad off?"

Dworkin suddenly gave a crazy-sounding giggle that fairly raised the prince's hackles!

"If Oberon truly fails, you won't even know what hit you, and a merciful end it shall be, comparatively-speaking, in which case your presence here will only be an unnecessary kindness to reassure the general populace before the end comes to devour you all in a blazing wall of void! And even if he succeeds… who knows what will happen on the battlefield in the interim? There is a great time-difference – as I know I taught you once, long ago – between the two poles of existence also, and this, too, will experience great flux in the aftermath of his efforts with the Pattern. There was simply no point in worrying those bent on going with statistics; they will see the truth soon enough with their own eyes. From what I remember of the numbers of the Courts in _my_ day, multiplying and rounding evenly to accommodate the upcoming generations, our troops should be outnumbered approximately twenty-to-one, although on a practical skill level it should only feel like five or seven per man; many of my countrymen will incinerate from minor flesh wounds before they can do much damage to the lines. There _is_ a real chance that they could literally sweep away our forces, burying them under a flaming pile of corpses. Surprise is your father's main weapon here. Like I said, it's a roundabout gamble – possibly not worth the effort – but, as I stated before, the choice was not mine. And remember also that I had many other offspring in the early days of Juniper before Amber came to be, but only your father survived to rule the True City. Only _one_ need survive, boy! I believe, additionally, that Oberon felt he could trust you, that you would not attempt to take the Throne in his absence – in their absence, I should say; he has not even told _me_ who he has planned to be his successor, but then again I am usually kept in the dark in all things," his eyes unnaturally blackened entirely, white and all; upon seeing the eerie effect, Gérard automatically took a step back! It had been learned from Corwin that their Chaosian grandfather could not only shapeshift, but sometimes did so dangerously without his conscious control, from his madness!

But the old man just grinned up at him. "I have wondered, on one occasion and another, whether you yourself would have fared better as a Lord of Chaos – ah, you find the sentiment absurd, thinking it another fancy of my unsound mind, though you are too polite to say it aloud. But I am thinking of your internal nature, of your sense of moral honor, which somehow seems to have bypassed my other grandchildren completely. _That_ is Chaosian to the hilt, believe-it-or-not, and your well-wishing will could have easily rendered some surprisingly pleasant patchwork paradises in the shadows close to the Abyss, in the area the lords there call 'the Rim'. But I suppose that _is_ just an ancient patriarch's rambling," his eyes resumed their normal state as he turned from the prince toward one of the bookshelves to their left, eying a volume up on the top. "Gérard, as long as you're here, would you mind?" he gestured.

The prince gave a quiet little sigh as he crossed the small area in two steps, reaching the tomes that were far too high for the little hunchback to reach unaided. It could literally be the end of the world, and some things would simply never change.

"Not that one, to the left… to the right… left one more – that's it – and just over there if you would, thank you. I would normally levitate or shift into something bigger myself to fetch things from up there, but I must conserve my energies for the long journey ahead," the ancient sorceron shuffled his way over to the stuffed leather chair behind the large wooden desk, slowly seating himself. With a resounding thud, he flipped open the hefty tome that Gérard had ever-so-carefully deposited there, thumbing about two-thirds of the way through before he commenced scanning the text (it was painstakingly calligraphied in a language that Gérard could not read) seemingly forgetting that there was still someone else present in the room! The prince would have quietly slipped out at this clear mental dismissal had there been any obvious exit, but the only visible door was heavily padlocked.

So, he reflected briefly, really he had been left with no instructions at all! _None_! No advice on how to run the kingdom, not even how to prepare anyone for what sounded like an inevitable catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions, of which he had only been informed himself just now!

"If all is truly as you see it," he hesitantly began, risking the old man's ire by interrupting his studies, "there is little any of us can do here but to _pray_!"

Dworkin genuinely paused, then craned, looking almost straight up to meet Gérard's worried eyes. "I think that is a _very good idea_ ," he slowly praised him as one might a small child, absently patting his nearby wrist, then shooing him away. "You go do that. At least it should keep the citizenry from panicking when then see that wall of cloud emanating from Mount Kolvir: success or failure, make no mistake, the Storm _is_ coming!" he shook one gnarled, skeletal finger in the air for emphasis. "Now where is it… oh! I nearly forgot!" He turned and opened the top desk drawer to the left; rather than office supplies, it was filled to capacity with brown tincture bottles! He located one by memory alone (all the cork tops were identical) and, swiveling in the wheeled chair, pressed it into Gérard's large right palm. "It goes without saying that my progeny are a rare stock indeed. For many long years, I genuinely feared that your father was as sterile as any mule due to the sainted beast that foaled him, and while I was relieved to be finally proven wrong, my grandchildren would appear to share in his difficulty." He looked up at Gérard seriously. "If the time comes – in the time to come – do not hesitate to take the dram all at once. There must always, _always_ be a king in Amber, as long as she survives," he nearly sounded on the brink of a sob…

And just as abruptly the mood vanished, his gaze reverting to his book. "Now go away; I am about to become very busy and I should like to be alone."

"You forget, Grandfather," the prince gently chided him, "it was by your power that you brought me here. There is no door to leave by, save one that appears forbidden me."

"So I did," Dworkin conceded, "but you are wrong on the second count. Just use the mirror."

The mirror? Gérard hadn't even noticed a mirror in this room! Dworkin pointed… oh, _there_ , in the darkest corner, of course, perfectly hidden in plain sight! The thing was nearly tall enough, but it was a little on the thin side; he'd have to squeeze through it sideways, he reflected as he approached it.

"I am correct in thinking that I just have to concentrate on where I wish to go?" the prince verified. The reflection of the room had become markedly blurrier upon his nearing the artifact.

"Mostly, but your destination must also contain a sizeable mirror; shouldn't be a problem, the Castle's perfectly packed with them. Our family is a vain lot."

Gérard had decided on one of the unused guest rooms on the second floor that had an immense gilt-edged mirror next to an empty armoire, close to his quarters, when he paused, turning back.

"Any last-minute advice for sailing the ship-of-state?" he half-laughed a little desperately.

Dworkin gave an aggravated huff at being interrupted a second time, but when he looked up at him there was a definite twinkle in his ancient eyes. "Straight and true through the Storm, then – providing you make it – steady as she goes."

"Yes, sir," the prince nodded, turning and passing through the membrane-like surface of the mirror, right shoulder first.

"A good lad, such a good lad," Gérard could hear his grandfather absently muttering just before the locational transition was complete, and he had to stifle a tear or two of his own. He could not afford emotion right now: he had a job to do and do _quickly_. Letting himself out of the room, the prince briskly strode down the hall to his own room, stashing the vial of what was no doubt some manner of fertility drug in a large locked trunk to the side of his bed that contained all manner of personal affects, private correspondence, and centuries-worth of odds-and-ends mementos: not the sort of things meant for display, just meaningful for their owner. It was silly junk from all over Shadow that just happened to be attached to ancient memories, mostly, although a couple of fairly costly items from the True City were buried toward the bottom of that pile: one a relic of his mother from her Unicornian convent that neither of his brothers had wanted upon her death, and the other a secret gift from Caine, something his elder blood-brother had stolen for him long ago when they were boys.

Caine. There was much bitterness and not a little righteous anger that welled up within Gérard when he thought of how his brother had been so ignominiously slain, and on holy ground, too, in the Grove of the Unicorn. But he had faith in his surviving siblings, in Julian, that the traitorous perpetrator would soon be dead and standing in Her terrible judgment. He only rued that he could not crush Brand's windpipe with his own right hand.

Taking a deep breath with his eyes closed to try to calm down (this was no occasion for ire, either) he collected himself and exited his quarters. Working out how to best spread the news and the subsequent order, for it would be no small feat with so few men to act as relays in such a short period of time, Gérard jogged down the Grand Staircase two steps at a time to the ground floor, and turned right at full-speed – very nearly plowing down a man who had simply been in the wrong place at the right time!

"Lord Rein! My apologies!" the prince exclaimed in surprise as the lithe, dark-haired, richly dressed fellow recovered himself, "but whatever are you doing here? I thought for sure that you would be at Corwin's righthand as always!"

Fletcher Rein had been frequenting the Castle for nearly as long as most of Gérard's siblings had been alive, first as a playmate to a couple of the young princes, then trained as a minstrel, then made Prince Corwin's squire in some petty war where he had been knighted on the field in what felt like eons ago now. The man had retained his post for his musical ability, but Gérard's present query was unfortunately legitimate: he was on the slight side, but in excellent physical condition, and a surprisingly good swordsman (which was also Corwin's doing – they'd been best friends forever.)

Lord Rein flushed to match his fine burgundy velvet doublet, embarrassedly eying the elaborately woven floor-runner beneath his boots.

"He expressly forbade me from accompanying him this time – of all times! I am not here of my own free will. I would not have shirked the Summons."

Gérard felt for the man's perceived public humiliation, but he had a hunch that the reasoning behind the peculiar order lay near what he himself had been concerned about: Corwin had judged that Rein's sensitive artistic psyche would be utterly destroyed by that surreal, nightmarish realm. It wasn't any lack of skill that had garnered this unasked clemency. He placed his large hands on the man's shoulders.

"That would make _two_ of us ordered behind, then," he chuckled warmly.

Lord Rein openly stared up at the prince in shocked disbelief. " _You_?! You, out of all the others…" he slowly shook his head.

Gérard let go of him, still smiling. "Thankfully, we are not charged to make sense of them! Corwin did not order you to barricade yourself in the Castle, did he?" he tried to make light of it.

"No, he did not, but he might as well have," Rein sighed dejectedly.

"Good – then we will ride to the new Shrine of the Unicorn together," Gérard stated definitively, taking off down the hall again, the smaller man having to literally run just to keep up!

"Why? What's happening?" he called.

But the prince had already reached the guard's station, and Lord Rein could scarcely believe the words that were coming out of easy-going, simple-working, absolutely-no-crazy-business Gérard's mouth when he arrived seconds later! The old retainer initially blanched at the news, but after a moment he was in control of himself again, racing off to raise the alarm to the Guard in the city below, to get word to the citizens of the True World to either get to one of the Unicorn shrines (there were several in and near Amber herself), or, if unable to do this for any reason, to barricade themselves inside their houses and dwellings with the windows covered and the doors barred, and there to pray that their Great Patron would spare their lives as well as the lives of their men on the field of battle!

Gérard was about to barge out the Castle backdoor on the heels of the soldier – in the direction of the stables – when Lord Rein stopped him.

"My lord! What of the Lady Vialle?"

_Vialle_! It had completely slipped Gérard's overworked mind that there _was_ technically another member of the Family still in Amber: Random's Rebman wife, niece of Queen Moire of the undersea kingdom! Intelligent, soft-spoken, incredibly perceptive of human nature and fairly attractive physically if on the petite side, Vialle Barimen had seemed an almost morbidly farcical match for Gérard's brash, self-centered, short-sighted, malevolently mischievous little half-brother. But just being married to the woman seemed to be almost miraculously mellowing out Random's wilder more dangerous impulses, and for this reason alone it would have been easy to like the lady, even without her other attributes. The prince knew he really didn't have the time for this, and realistically the serving woman who assisted her with certain things and often kept her company would be far more freaked out than Vialle would be when that ominous front came: she was blind as well. But she still had the right to be kept informed of what was going on.

"Do you know where she is? We must hurry!"

"I just left her in the smaller library downstairs!"

The two men dashed back down the ornately carved, marble-tiled hallway and to the right, fairly bursting into the room!

The woman at Vialle's side on one of the sofas stood immediately upon seeing who it was, her eyes wide in surprise, the book she had been reading aloud for her mistress' entertainment still clutched in her hands, but Vialle only turned in their direction, 'looking' up at them with her focusless, deep brown eyes, slowly rising to her feet with more grace.

"Gérard! Whatever is the matter?" She had recognized him by the sound of his boots on the polished darkwood floor alone. The prince approached her.

"There is no easy way to say it and no time to explain better… but we may face the end of all in less than half an hour. Do you wish to accompany us to the Great Shrine? Rein and I are going."

The serving woman literally had to sit to keep from fainting dead away, but Vialle only frowned and nodded, reaching for the woman, taking her shaking hands in her own still ones, seating herself beside her again. "You remember I am still under house arrest here? That neither Corwin nor King Oberon ever remembered to lift Prince Eric's proscription?"

_Leave it to Random's Lady to worry about something like that at a time like this,_ Gérard thought with a touch of admiration. "I can't think of a single soul who would object at this point – I wish we had the time to notify your countrymen also – but I must respect your wishes. You are sure you are going to be all right here?"

"I'll be just as fine as you, Gérard, but thank you," she reached out toward him, and he took her delicate right hand, stooping low to lightly kiss its back before letting her go. "If you wish, you may light a votive for me – for Random."

"For you _both_ ," he rejoindered kindly. "Unicorn willing…"

Gérard no idea how to end the interview; imminent universal destruction was far too awkward for fast, light conversation, and the two men took their leave of her then and there without another word. The prince knew he would never forget the way she had smiled at him just now, the way she had commenced comforting her quietly weeping servant the moment they turned to leave.

"I can scarcely believe a woman that outwardly gracious and brave is not a Barimen by blood," Lord Rein remarked with wonder on their way to the royal stables; even most of the horses were gone, clean stalls with illustrious names on bronze plaques over them standing empty.

"She's had to be," the prince answered simply, mounting a freshly-readied Domino, his huge black-and-white pinto. "She voluntarily married Random, knowing him beforehand by reputation alone!" Their union had been arranged by a vengeful Queen Moire, as legal punishment for the groom and social promotion for the bride. What was odd about the match was that the marriage had actually been successful, even with Random being Random and all! They knew the lady was serious about him when she asked to share his dungeon cell and subsequent confining to the Castle during Prince Eric's brief reign and Corwin's equally short regency. Oberon had simply been so busy upon his return that he never even thought to lift the ban! Not that any of it was going to matter…

Off they sped, down the wide Concourse in the heart of the city, which stood eerily empty, many produce carts simply left behind unmanned, the stalls all closed up, on through the gradually winding medieval cobblestone streets, through the West Gate and out into the forest until they spied the Black Road rippling on the floor of the now-ruined Valley of Garnath like a slow, malevolent stream; it was empty of invaders for the moment, thankfully, for of the sheer number of people congregating in the Valley so dangerously close to it! They turned down the slope and made for their destination.

While much of Prince Eric's reign had been consumed with war both legitimate and 'civil', one of his less publicized civic accomplishments while king had been the construction of a number of more concrete, temple-like Unicornian shrines. The largest of these was in the Valley of Garnath, downhill from the pre-existing site up on the hillside in the Arden proper, as a deliberate middle-finger to the invaders. The new structures were physically strong, places where the faithful could be literally protected during prayer and worship. The beings from the Black Road had become so bold as to harass or even attempt blatant attacks on those that frequented the old-style 'open' holy places, though the priests bravely defended the land from repeated attempts of outright desecration, which was undoubtedly the goal of these petty-seeming ambush exercises. It was to the brand-new Temple at Garnath that they were flying: a fabulous Parthenon-like structure with lavishly carved columns made to resemble tree trunks that lined the exterior like a marble forest, the inner walls and ceiling well-illuminated and beautifully painted to look _exactly_ like the landscape just outside (minus the current blight of the Black Road), creating the near-illusion of still being out-of-doors in truth. All the new temples carried this visual conceit; it had been the one major demand of the priests' council when the plan was initially discussed.

Gérard and Rein began running into traffic congestion on the approach to the Valley. While the site was some miles west of the city, it was within easy enough riding distance for those so inclined. The prince was logically aware of the peculiar population shift the City had just undergone, but the sight of the obvious result still initially threw him: nearly all the travelers on the road were women: women with children, women accompanying an elderly parent or two yet fit for the journey, women riding horses or pack animals or driving carts alone. Amber was suddenly the literal City of Ladies, not the idealized allegory penned by the Shadow Earth author Christine de Pizan (and Lord Rein felt the need to quietly mention as much to his current companion while they were dismounting just outside; a female novice led away their horses to the temple's stable.)

"It's going to change things, you know," Fletcher muttered as they climbed the few steps of the foundation; the buildings had to be physically near the ground, too. "There's no way that it won't."

"At present, we should only be so lucky as to live to see it," Gérard quietly responded before immediately being escorted to the nave with great pomp and respect. Rein casually following him at a distance, seating himself in one of the front pews that was for the general public; the gentry usually preferred to sit in the rear.

There was a natural, uncarved stone-slab altar at the front of the temple – the original part of an old shrine that had been destroyed – upon which was strewn garlands of flowers and other seasonal greenery as well as many small, white candles. Anyone could approach to light one and silently pray as they wished; there was a long niche in the back of the building for this purpose, also, as well as another outside along the perimeter facing the forest. It was here at the front altar that the prince was busy lighting candles for nearly all his family yet living. They were all of them standing on the brink, it would seem, and there was no room for old grudges or 'bad blood' in this moment. The Temple was filling quickly and soon the middle-aged, white-robed Chief Priest of the Unicorn, Ivor Venway, who had been summoned away from the Shrine on Kolvir expressly for this purpose, approached Gérard humbly about starting the service.

The King of Amber is head of the Church in Amber, vaguely similar to the tradition in England on Shadow Earth, only the degree of perceived separation from the worshipped entity is far smaller due to the Barimens direct lineage (so it was said) from the Unicorn Herself. The king – or any of the royals, at need – could run an entire service without anyone's permission or assistance at all, but the prince begged off, uncomfortable enough not to be flattered by the suggestion, knowing his place; nevertheless, he offered to handle the lectionary readings from the Book of the Unicorn at the proper time. He rather doubted that they would have time to make it through the entire rite from how the sky was already getting strangely overcast on the ride here – from the northeast, which was highly unusual for their local weather patterns. From the direction of Mount Kolvir…

The Temple rang out with soprano and alto voices as the worship began, the few male voices (including the priest's) all but drowned out in an uneasy sea of femininity. The sense of ritual proved to be fairly reassuring and comforting for those accustomed to it, as Dworkin had shrewdly predicted, but by the time Gérard rose to read, faint thunder could already be heard in the distance – _continuous_ thunder, not unlike the steady roar of a waterfall.

The passage allotted to the day and occasion wasn't terribly surprising: it was the old account of the Unicorn wresting the Left Eye away from the accursed Serpent of Chaos and galloping away with Her prize with great joy, knowing what all could be built on that seemingly tiny artifact: Amber. Order. Shadow. Everything of life that they knew and most had ever known, up to the coming of the Black Road War, when their ancient enemy had attempted to seize and 'corrupt' the True World itself. And yet – for all that potential power – She had needed a man's help to enact that Grand Design in the drawing of the Pattern. This was the faithful's main reason for hope: their Great Patron had initially _required_ one of mankind to fulfill Her will here. With any luck, She would continue to require them, and subsequently preserve and prosper them (in this life at least) still.

As the long formulaic prayers began, Gérard was still standing in front alongside the Chief Priest – who, to his credit, was chanting faster than usual – but the sound of torrential rain and that ominous thunder had been gradually getting audibly closer and closer as the service progressed; poor Ivor nearly had to shout to be heard at this point! A few children were crying, and probably more than a few of the adults present, though most of them were hiding their distress better; they could hear the startled animals just outside in the yard. The suspense was perfectly horrific, and Gérard quickly found himself completely unable to concentrate on the staid, distant-sounding phrasing, the aphoristic platitudes he had learned as a child; rather, what remained was the heartfelt desperation and questioning of a man faced with the seemingly ruthless destruction of all he had ever loved. And it felt even worse because he was _related_.

_Grandmother, have pity…what have any of these people done to deserve this?! Why, oh_ _ why _ _did you make Order as fragile as the blood you used to design it?! Could you not see what would happen? Did you not_ _ care _ _? …forgive me, I do not claim Your place, I only wish there was a reason we should all die today; perhaps it would not be so terrible if I only knew… And if, by Your love and might, you spare us today, how am I to govern this land?! All I've ever been in charge of are sailors and soldiers, often with better men under me, men with quicker wits, with more cunning and skill! How can I run an_ _ empire _ _?! How can I keep the place from going to pieces short of martial law?! I have always been content with my lot in life, with one of my brothers receiving our great inheritance… please bring them back safely –_ _ all _ _of them; see, I yield You even my bitterness against Brand, if You can make him fit to be saved and brought home. If only-_

The prince's eyes had been screwed tightly shut against the sheets of lightning he could see blazing from beneath the far doors at the end of the sanctuary as the very ground they stood upon started to shake, but without any warning he could see…that it was pitch-dark! The candles and lamps had not been extinguished: they were _gone_!

The Temple was gone!

…he was completely, terribly and utterly _alone_ , floating in the Void…

… then again, perhaps not _totally_ alone: he could see something ahead of him, indistinct, a considerable distance away. As he concentrated on it, he had the unmistakable sensation that he was approaching it, whatever it was! Shadow-men on Earth used to speak of seeing a Light in a pool of darkness in near-death experiences, but Gérard had never expected to behold such a phenomenon himself until just this very moment… and a truly bitter moment it was, if he alone out of all who had gathered there was to be taken to an after-continuance of sorts; this wasn't 'life' – he couldn't feel his body at all in spite of the fact that he was 'seeing' somehow, and he felt certain that it was gone for good. Would Caine and Eric and his dead elder half-brothers whom he had never met be there waiting for him when he arrived at the Light? Would his father? Would they all be set adrift in the fabric of time and space forever by dint of being a Power's progeny: not powerful enough to save themselves from this fate, but just barely stable enough to endure it?

But the mysterious Light came into focus the longer he concentrated on it, all the while he was drawing nearer, becoming very, very clear, and blue, until…

If he had had physical eyes yet he would have wept: it was the Pattern, seen from _below_ the rock it had once been carved into, as if through a thin sheet of glass! And hovering above its center was a new emanation that separated away from the main Light even as he watched: it was unmistakably the Unicorn, but as no one had ever reported seeing Her – a highly complicated matrix of brightly-glowing lines, a living geometry more than any physical beast, it was now certain! She was terrible, beautiful, _gigantic_ – bigger than the Pattern! She sensed him watching and turned Her gaze downward to fully face him! Her liquid-like eyes shone with the pure light of Prime Order. Gérard could scarcely think with Her looking through him like that – not judgmental, not kind, merely observant – and he berated his own simpleness, certain that any of his other brothers or sisters would've instinctively known what to do here… and that more than one of them would've readily killed him to be able to stand where he was at this moment!

But Her expression changed ever-so-slightly – and a bolt of _knowing_ shot through him to his core! Approval… reassurance… and not just reassurance, but _assurance_ ; certainty! She reared on her hind legs and shot away from him in the twinkling of an eye like a star, hot on the heels of the Storm! But the remaining Pattern was flowing, churning, causing a visible rippling in the Void that quickly gathered strength and brightness, pounding away from the locus-point like a nuclear explosion; the fallout was rushing towards him, there was no time to even panic-

And just as suddenly the world came crashing back to life and reality all around him! He was back in his body, standing at the front of the altar of the Unicorn in the Shrine and the sounds of the thunder were still unbearably loud, shaking the stone structure! But he now audibly recognized that the fury of the Storm was beginning to recede away from them to the west! The high priest standing next to him was still frantically chanting his prayers with his eyes shut as tight as humanly possible; the prince nearly laughed at the sight – knowing what he knew now – but he swallowed it and kindly grasped Ivor's shoulder, interrupting him.

"You can start praising Her instead, if you like," he smiled down at him broadly. "I think we just made it."

An immediate cheer went up from the assembly amid tears of joy and embraces; the curious toward the back of the temple went outside to see, and were soon shouting that the Black Road was gone, along with every last trace of the blight! Anthems of praise were sung, followed by patriotic songs, as the High Priest led the congregation out into the field: it was safe to worship openly once again! Chain-dances, circle-dances, spiral-dances, villagers from the surrounding region bringing food and wine, more people coming and coming and coming: it was quite an inspiring sight. That afternoon and evening were like unto a festival day, like the Celebration of Spring, of the first day of Kanam, when life returns to the land. If this truly had signified the end of the hostilities and the War, Gérard would have enjoyed himself immensely; Lord Rein was certainly making merry, taking happy advantage of the fact that he was one of the only young men present amongst so many attractive and eligible young ladies!

As it was, the prince was already feeling the weight of the new responsibility he had been given, and it was sobering indeed. He was now responsible for the lives and safety of every person here… in the City, in the region. Regent Gérard, Protector of Amber: it wasn't a title he particularly cared for. The sentiment was better suited to Benedict, his eldest living half-brother, who routinely set himself up that way whichever Shadows he ruled over at the time, his people loving and revering him like a demigod…

_It_ _feels_ _cleaner_ , the prince found himself thinking out-of-the-blue, surveying the Valley. The forest here had been mercilessly leveled by both fire and fighting in the long years of skirmishes, but plant life had stubbornly come back in lush field grasses and wildflowers. The entire world looked and felt crisp and new like fresh garments after a long time without the luxury of a change. His father had done a good job on the Pattern, obviously.

His father…

Gérard felt his emotions welling up again, threatening to break the surface this time whether he willed or no, and he quietly removed himself from the festivities with relatively little notice, re-entering the Temple to shed his tears privately.

He had known that this was going to happen – that it _had_ to – but the reality of his father, Oberon the Mighty, first King of Amber, truly being dead had just hit him like an illegal kick to the stomach. And only powers knew what was happening with the rest of his family right now! And what of the Unicorn in his vision? Had that deity-like glance of approval been a small grace in response to his heartfelt plaint just then? Or did it forebode what he feared…

"Your Highness?"

Ivor's calm, kindly voice brought him up short: the high priest had found him in front of one of the smaller altars toward the back in the left-hand corner, in front of a small, pastoral-style oil-painting of their Patron. Gérard quickly dried his eyes, a little embarrassed, his voice momentarily a bit more defensive-sounding than he intended.

"What is it?"

"Forgive me, your Highness, I did not mean to offend, merely to console if I could. Many are yet praying for those on the field of battle. We must continue to have faith, my son."

Gérard swallowed hard at the unexpected word, and turned to face him. "The king is _dead_ ," he hoarsely whispered. "He _sacrificed_ …"

A look of terrible recognition came over the high priest's countenance with a gasp, and he quickly blessed himself. Then gravely added, "I will announce it publicly, if that is your wish."

But the giant of a man just shook his head, eying the grass-green carpet. "Not tonight. Let them celebrate; he did this for them, for all of us. There will be time enough for mourning later."

Ivor Venway simply nodded. "Rest assured that he is with his Bright Mother right now; She will never abandon any of Her children. I will leave you to commune with Her." And with that he silently turned to go back out to the throng; one could faintly hear the music even inside, past the heavy doors.

"Wait!"

The priest turned back in surprise. "What is it, your Highness?"

"I…I have seen something you should probably know about," Gérard collected his wits. Of anyone in the entire kingdom, the man standing right before him would have the best chance of deciphering that ominous vision!

Ivor said not a word, but his sudden change in demeanor was an obvious, reflexive reversion to the officiousness of his post, a learned defense mechanism that Gérard suddenly found himself envying (the act instantly commanded respect), as he made his stately way up the center aisle to the altar, the prince following in his illustrious train. Upon reaching their destination, Gérard knelt and the priest blessed him.

"Tell me, my son – oh, my apologies, your Highness; it's an old habit," Ivor gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh.

But gentle-hearted Gérard only gave a wan lip-smile himself. "I will get used to it in time. But… when the Storm was coming, when it got here… do you remember seeing anything? My own eyes were closed when it arrived. Did you look?"

"Merciful Cosmos, no! All my mind, my will, was bent on the Unicorn, on Her hearing us! …what did you _see_ , my child?" he astutely intuited.

The prince gave a sudden, violent full-body shudder. "Nothing. There was _nothing_ , do you hear me?!" he looked up in remembered alarm! "Not even stars! Just an empty black Void! But I saw a light and… I understand not how it got bigger, but it… it was the _Pattern_ … and…"

But something within Gérard that he had never been aware of before brought him up short, stopping him from telling the rest; he firmly closed his mouth with the cold, sure knowledge that the true reality was meant for no lesser being, not even such a devoted acolyte.

It took no imagination to guess the direction of the prince's unspoken thoughts, however. "You saw Her, then. But there was specific information gained that was for you and you alone," the high priest easily deduced, blessing him again. "I am deeply honored that you wished to share this confidence with me, but I well-understand now that you cannot; I have seen this reaction but once before, and from his late Majesty, no less."

Gérard stared up at him in open astonishment! Ivor gave him a secretive little smile.

"I see no harm in telling his son, for I learned nothing on that day, either. It was many years ago, long before his… troubles," he politicly finished the thought. "I do empathize that it can be difficult shouldering such an exalted message alone – would that I could ease this burden, it obviously troubles you – but at least you have seen the splendor that is True Order with your own eyes. You now _know_ that She is for us, that She indeed bends her ears towards us even now, that She will not desert Amber to the nothing of Chaos. We will continue to offer up prayers for your Family, that they may be returned to us here, safe and victorious."

The priest stepped down and Gérard rose, only to sit down in the middle of the front pew, resting his muscular arms over the back.

"Was there anything else, your Highness?"

Gérard only shook his head in reply.

"Should you ever need a confidant for anything less…" Ivor let the sentiment hang, but he got no response and took the cue to quickly excuse himself, sensing the prince's sudden reticent turn in mood.

Gérard was staring at that gaily festooned altar, feeling horribly and uncharacteristically jaded. Beyond any implications for himself, the blunt and rather obvious conclusion of that vision had finally just dawned on him, having talked it all through again. He couldn't tell a soul.

Their 'higher power' had literally just run away…


	2. The Great Unfathomable

Chapter 2 – The Great Unfathomable

The formal announcement of the old king's death came as much of a surprise as a shock to the general populace of Amber; he had only returned to them mere days ago, seemingly back from the dead! In the absence of the body there was initially some inevitable questioning. If any of the other royal siblings had been there at the time, suspicions would have invariably been aroused, pointing fingers gone flying (at least in secret, where it could do more damage.) But the informant was none other than Gérard, who didn't have a single dishonest or guileful bone in his enormous body, and his personal grief was believable enough to any who saw him; it didn't hurt anything that the High Priest of Amber also vouched for the authenticity of the report, all but declaring the death an unfortunate but necessary act of religious ritual, never to be repeated again.

The appointed day of remembrance for the late Oberon Barimen felt less like the memorializing of a great king and more like the mourning of a well-loved and honored god for most. The comparison was perhaps not unwarranted: the man had lived longer than even the current Castle had stood, had seen every epoch of civilized history, had marched and ridden with their ancient grandsires in glorious battles against the then-still encroaching Darkness, in days so long-gone that barely any of the fabled stories yet existed in any form. The Mad Artist Dworkin of Chaos might've done the initial tracing of the Pattern under the inspiration of the Unicorn in the depths of Time, but it was his mighty surviving son who had seen Amber brought up from a poor, barely defensible stockade on the mountainside to a thriving city-state, creating a ripple-effect throughout Shadow that had given both rise and advancement to countless cultures in innumerable worlds beyond their own. He had _earned_ that level of respect and adoration from his people.

The turnout at the official service at the old shrine in the Grove of the Unicorn was so large that it was a very good thing that Ivor Venway was accustomed to officiating out-of-doors: all the nearby forest as far as the Valley of Garnath was packed to standing-room only, and a mere five days later at the unveiling of the great bronze statue of Oberon the Mighty – which was erected in the Concourse – normal traffic was inundated to standstill congestion from the throng of onlookers. Solemn feasts were held, even one hosted right away at the Castle for the remaining nobility and soldiers, with plenty of drinking and reminiscing, a proper and befitting wake. The prince refused to allow a cenotaph to be constructed when the chance of ever recovering his father's remains was so slim; in all likelihood, his body had been incinerated upon the Primal Pattern during the correction process, had not their grandfather borne away what was left of the corpse, wherever it was he had been going. Gérard had ridden out to the place of the True Pattern alone the day after the catastrophe and there was nothing there, just the pristine light-blue curving line in the smooth rock, uninterrupted by the stain that had blotted it before, the light emanating therefrom unusually placid. The sight had been both a relief and an oddly stark reminder…

A reminder that he himself might very well be the only 'god' left in this place; it was a thought that hadn't truly left him in peace since that ominous vision. That he might be called upon to fill his father's hallowed boots if none of the others returned. At the same time, it would've been downright stupid to believe that Gérard had never thought of the Throne at all – he had, like the others – but he had never believed that he would live to see the day that it became his; unlike his brothers, he'd been fine with that. The prince kept impulsively checking and rechecking his trump pack throughout the day, but the simple fact that he felt no coolness from it in his breastpocket where he kept it should've been informative enough: the cards were still inactive, temporarily 'out-of-service' from the Storm, as they had all been warned beforehand. And as long as those thin paperboard rectangles felt toasty from his considerable body heat, there was no reason to look at them. But he kept on trying anyway. If only…

If only one of his physically weaker but smarter brothers could come here in his place! He knew he could be of such service out there on the field – protecting the outnumbered, defending the wounded – and instead he was stuck here in a position he was never cut out for! Soon life would revert back to what would have to pass for 'normal' in the City with the vast majority of the menfolk gone, and he would be forced to judicate the all-too-regular cases between sharp-witted merchants, representatives of various trade guilds, and others who made a veritable living circumventing the law by loophole, besides the everyday pickpockets and other petty criminals such as lurked in the city and were periodically apprehended in their work and pastimes! It hadn't even been forty-eight hours and how he was longing to return to the sea: a straightforward life where a man knew what was expected of him, where the-

"Gérard."

Vialle had touched his arm, breaking his troubled reverie. "I had not heard your voice for some time now. You are still holding up all right?"

He gave her searching, sightless dark eyes a sad little smile and gently took the proffered hand, placing it in the crook of his great arm and leading her to one of the few empty couches along the wall. It was very late and guests were lingering too long in the lower sitting rooms of the Castle, but he hadn't had the heart to turn them out. They were all on the cusp of a new era; none knew what lay before. With the War still on, the future was completely up in the air.

"As well as will be," he quietly admitted, seating himself beside the slight lady. "I suppose my brothers have all fantasized about this day, some more aggressively than others, but… I never have even wished my father hurried on to whatever lies beyond for us, even if we weren't ever that close – even over the troubles with Mother, his abandonment. I never truly dreamed of reaching so high as…" he trailed off.

Vialle nodded. "I know. You do realize this is why you're still here. Even Random has joked to me at times of becoming king, and he has least chance of any of you, save your sisters! You loved your father even if he didn't always make it easy, enough so that his power was never sufficiently tempting."

Just having someone who understood that much, who would openly acknowledge it, seemed to help him get through the remainder of the night among many others who would've been more toward his brothers' inclination, who saw his current position as a tremendous opportunity to be seized. It did not even occur to him to wonder at how Vialle had located him among such a crowd all by herself…

The day after found him early in the king's apartments; he had barely slept with so much on his mind, and not of a mind to get truly wasted like the rest, now that that mind was actually needed. He had spent the morning poring over all the old treaties, agreements, general laws – _thousands_ of years worth, mostly but not all in order. The sheer volume of documentation present was simply psychologically overwhelming, and the fact that he would have to develop a standing memory of most of the salient points in the immediate future made him more incredulous than ever that any of his brothers had truly been willing to fight each other to the death to have to deal with this every day for the rest of their lives! It was sheer madness! Had Eric even tried to do this part of the job properly?! Thinking back, Gérard wasn't entirely certain that a lot of 'kingly duty' had really been going on in his elder half-brother's unofficial 'reign'; mostly he had just worked to consolidate the power he was forced to stand upon in such a legally tentative stance, and he was often absent from Amber at that.

He closed the age-cracked, leather-bound book in his hands, wishing that the past could as easily be shut, but immediately repented of the thought. He would never forget them all, no matter what happened. Never. Rising, hoisting a stack of tomes in his arms, he ordered breakfast _and_ lunch from a passing female servant in the hall, to be sent up to his own quarters so that he could continue to study in more personally comfortable surroundings.

Boy, did _that_ bring back memories…

Prince Gérard had been the last of his siblings to attend college. It had nearly not happened at all, he was so busy with Amber's navy, but his father had insisted, and at length they chose a Shadow Earth university that allowed for a curious, new physically-oriented major: American football. It had taken some doing to convince the King of Amber of the inherent value of tackling men in padded suits to keep them from getting a little pigskin leather ball to the end of a field over and over again for points, but the fact that the stimulus was entertaining enough to the prince to make him want to study the other subjects required to keep him 'on the field' proved to be enough impetus in the end, and he was sent off to the University of Alabama with his tuition fully paid in advance, along with a language coach to privately tutor him in the Southern American dialect of English before he went, to help him blend in. Goodness knows he'd needed the help: it was akin to sending Hercules to play-tussle with mere mortals! A few serious injuries (not his – other players) quickly taught him that he had to learn to control his movements considerably when grappling with such lesser beings as Earth-men as a defensive tackle for the Crimson Tide. While the college had offered his preferred sport also, wrestling had simply been out of the question: there would have been deaths. Even at that, he had enjoyed the camaraderie both on and off the field, the chance to be just 'one of the boys', as he had observed for centuries with the soldiers and sailors of his own country. It wasn't that he didn't have friends at home; he was fairly popular and well-liked, and for obvious enough reasons. But they could never forget his status, his title, what and who he really was. On Shadow Earth he had been treated by many as an equal (even if he was physiologically their better.) And the _women…_ Gérard leaned back on the legs of his chair and closed his eyes, folding his arms behind his head for a moment, smiling at the memories: there had definitely been some social perks as well to being on that football team. Those had been glorious days in that strange, libertine, technological society. He missed it at times.

He did not, however, miss _this_ , the cramming under pressure of materials only half-studied beforehand, right before a test. Gérard had been a good student overall, never even ditching class, but there had admittedly been a few subjects had that failed to peak his interest, which he hadn't always paid quite as much attention to even if he was physically present.

But this was no final exam: it was life – his life – until further notice. Technically, he was free to consult all of these texts at his leisure – there was no rule in Amber's judicial system that would prohibit recesses to do precisely this during a hearing or a trial – but it would look far better if the prince knew as much of it off the top of his head as possible. The late king had known the entire Code of Law by rote… probably because he'd written most of it. The appearance of stability at the top had to be maintained at all costs.

It took ten days more for the prince – as well as the rest of the City – to finally realize that they were facing far greater and more immediately pressing problems than trying to run a country with over three-quarters the regularly working population missing. One big one, actually: no new merchant ships had come into the harbor from anywhere at all in days, all of Amber's own ships having been ordered to stay in until it was clear that the outside shadows were as they should be once again; it had seemed a reasonable enough proposition at the time the decree had been given. For all the fabled glory, wealth, and political and military power the City of Amber was legendary for, the neo-medieval metropolis had grown so accustomed to the ability to go anywhere by sea and deal in any merchandise imaginable that the food economy at home had never truly developed beyond a handful of subsistence farmers in the outlying areas to the west beyond the official city-limits, and one native vintner, Baron Bayle. Nearly all of the pantry goods to be had in the City were imported from Shadow-worlds both near and far. Some delay could've been written off as 'natural', a side-effect of the passing of the Great Storm (as the phenomenon had quickly been dubbed.) But if the absence continued even to the end of the ngan, the whole region would be plunged into a dire famine, the effects of which would spread through the freshly-cleaned Shadows…

And Gérard's trumps continued warm in his pocket, next to his great heart, to his consternation. Would even shadow-travel fail them while that great Order recalibrated itself? As the days wore on and the market stalls got emptier and emptier, with only the still-waiting Amberite fleets in the harbor (mostly unmanned as well, due to the draft), the prince knew that action was needed and soon, but he was in a moral bind over how to endeavor it. He couldn't simply strike out with even a small crew not knowing whether the attempted shadow-sail would doom all hands to limbo at best, possibly wrecked by unfamiliar reefs and prehistoric alien sea-monsters at worst, with no chance of reaching _any_ destination once out of sight of land… including home. No, there had to be a way of testing the system, but what? And if anything were to happen to _him_ , what would happen to his people?! It was a regular Gorgon knot, and it failed to improve upon verbal repetition – to the merchants, in particular, with aging luxury and specialty goods in the holds of their ships and nowhere to send them! Certain parts of the Arden Forest nearer the city, including the already deforested Valley of Garnath, were annexed as eminent domain by the Crown, land to be cleared and farmed for the first time in their country's history, with the resultant timber the workers' wages to do with as they saw fit, build or sell or burn for fuel. At least the local fisheries had not suffered – the people still had meat from the sea; conversely, _that_ business was booming – but bread and ale were beginning to come hard by, as were other basic goods. No amount of land husbandry could help them this season; they simply didn't have enough time. If only there was a way to _know_ , without risking so much…

"My lord, is it common practice to carry a copy of one's own trump?" Lord Rein put to him of an afternoon, when just the two of them were at luncheon (such as it was becoming) at the Castle; the man often felt unwelcome elsewhere in society anymore, for all practical purposes treated as a draft-dodger when so many husbands and sons his age or younger had gone off to the War. "I know that Lord Corwin has one of himself at all times anymore, but, well… it's Corwin," he quietly joked.

Gérard nearly choked on his haddock and blatantly stared at the man wide-eyed, stunned: that was _it!_ The answer had been too obvious! Hurriedly taking a drink and coming to his feet, the prince raced across the room to one of the desks (they were currently in the Library; the dining room had simply become too depressing.) Unlocking a hidden side-drawer, he extracted a spare pack of trumps and brought it back to the table; Lord Rein had risen also, partly out of decorum but also sensing the urgency of the situation, wiping his hands clean. Gérard's hands were almost shaking as he thumbed through the pack, past the Minor Arcana cards that he had ceased to carry as a part of his regular deck years ago, to and through the old family portraits painted by none other than Dworkin himself in ages past, until he located his own face – and grinned widely at the miniature oil painting of a laughing, dark-haired brawny youth with a wine goblet in one hand that made him look like the King of Cups (at his ancient grandsire's insistence): that single trump was cool to the touch! _His_ would work! Hopefully…

Rein was taken aback as the prince eagerly pressed the card into his hands; he had never been allowed to so much as touch the casing of Corwin's deck! "But, my lord!" he began to protest.

"At ease, man; it won't hurt you," Gérard reassured him. "But I need someone's help to test this thing and I can't think of anyone else more qualified to try it. You've seen us use these many times; you should be familiar with how they work by observation alone. I am going to go into the next room over. Start to concentrate on my trump. Don't be discouraged if it doesn't come live right away; these original decks were not made for the ease of the user as some of the later ones were, and you are unaccustomed to the exertion of will necessary. But I believe you to be capable or I would not ask you at all. Once the picture shifts and you see me as I am now, I will speak and reach out my hand to you: give me yours through the card, clasp mine firmly, and walk backwards pulling me with you back into this room. Do you understand?"

"Hardly," Fletcher faltered, "but I'll give it my best."

"Don't worry – the only ones of us who really understood how these blasted things work were the redheads, I think, and look where _they_ got us," the prince rued. "You don't have to understand it. Just do it."

"Yes, my lord."

Gérard hastily tromped out of the library and hung a fast left!

Fletcher Rein let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and regarded the priceless magickal artifact in his hands, handling the miraculously well-preserved painting delicately by the edges as he had seen the sons and daughters of Oberon Barimen do since he had been a very young boy. The natural-born citizens of the True Realm, such as Rein, could live to be almost two-thousand years old, not showing age until much closer to the end. It wasn't the near-immortality of the children of the Unicorn, but it was still a fairly impressive and healthy span in comparison to the denizens of Shadow. And even at that…

True to the prince's warning, he found the mental task far more difficult than the royals had always made it look: it took nearly four-and-a-half minutes of almost headache-inducingly intense concentration before he proved capable of establishing even tentative contact, and when the sensation and the visual finally came through he initially doubted his senses, nearly believing that he had merely mesmerized himself into seeing the prince in the flesh with the different sitting room in the background, before Gérard began to talk to him.

"Good, I see you now! You can hear me all right?"

"Merciful heavens, it really _is_ you! Yes, yes I can hear and see you, clear as day!"

The prince laughed a little good-naturedly at the man's reaction of shocked disbelief. "Give me your hand, then," he ordered, still smiling, extending his own large right hand toward him. Dreamlike, Rein saw his own hand visually pass through the two-dimensional paperboard and into the three-dimensional picture, feeling the prince's firm-nigh-painful clasp as soon as it reached him. Half pulling/half walking backwards, the man successfully hauled Gérard through the portal, blinking up at him in astonishment as the prince appeared before him with a clear expression of triumph in his blue eyes!

"I can't thank you enough for pointing that out to me, my friend," he congratulated Rein warmly, shaking his still-clasped hand before releasing him. "I fear I was chiefly made for action and manly labors, not for tricky problems of logic. It may be safe to assume that the only reason the other trumps don't work yet is because the Great Storm is still on its way to Chaos. But Shadow on this side of the universe should be working just fine by now, at least the first dozen or so worlds in the Golden Circle."

"But then why haven't we heard anything from them yet? Something still isn't right here, unless they too are merely afraid after seeing that hellish wall of clouded lightning pass by, and are wondering the same of us?"

Gérard frowned. "I fear there may be more to it than that. We kept the Begman ambassador abreast of events here to a certain extent, since their people were battling shadow-monsters similarly in their own land. I've known many of their sea captains personally over the years; it isn't in their nature to shirk a clear sky and a fair sea. The threat was surely wiped out there just as suddenly and completely as it was here. There would have been no mistaking it. No," the prince mused, "this smacks more of some kind of involuntary blockade."

"Or that the Storm knocked out all natural magic, both good and bad."

Gérard lightly shuddered. "I would certainly hope not, but you may be onto something there. The paths that Amber uses on the high seas weren't always there, you know – yes, I think you do remember a time before them," he thought aloud. "Perhaps they must be ploughed afresh on that new clear blue… perhaps we have to start over." He glanced down at Rein, suddenly serious. "I think I might have to re-establish the major trade routes myself, to open the way again."

Rein's eyes widened at the growing implications. "…but the full process could take seasons, years even! Amber cannot be without rule for that long!"

_There must always,_ _always_ _be a king in Amber_ , Dworkin's half-lucid plaint echoed in the prince's memory.

_Must there be?_ Gérard suddenly thought. There was technically no king now, and the Castle was yet standing. Their world had withstood both regency and forcible usurpation. Eric's betrayal of his trust on that count still left a bitter taste in the back of his throat; at least his elder brother had proven himself loyal to Amber in the end. And it was worth noting that the True World was not as dependent upon the Royal Family's physical presence there to maintain its own structural and cultural stability, as a world off in shadow could become if one of them lived there long enough and then left; Amber had the True Pattern for that, and three more within relatively close proximity, besides. But those concerns barely even touched the country's legal system…

"I agree," the prince said at length, worrying his beard with his front teeth. "But the people will be facing near-starvation if I don't start out right away. We need sail only as far as Begma to ensure the grain and dairy at first; the rest can come later," he retook his seat at the table, intent on polishing off lunch; Lord Rein followed suit out of outward respect, but his own appetite had fled on the heels of such news. "It'll be tight, but I believe we have enough hands left for a skeleton crew for such a voyage, so long as we don't take one of the larger ships. If only we had enough manpower for a clipper," he sighed, "it could be far quicker, just a few days there and back."

"Were you only planning on retracing the old routes, then? Well, probably easiest for the captains and the cartographers at least," Rein availed himself of a drink. "Faster isn't necessarily safer. But that still doesn't answer the question of what's to be done with all of us in the meanwhile – me, I'll just be working on the heroic ballads I've been composing of late, but that's just one man accounted for out of an entire civilization."

Gérard had stopped in mid-chew three sentences ago, fully convinced that the court minstrel could run the realm better than he could if his life depended on it! He swallowed.

"Rein," the prince addressed him rather solemnly, "I'm going to appoint you Steward of Amber during my absence, which, if I take your sound advice once more, should be shorter than even I had expected."

To say that Lord Rein was stunned by this dire pronouncement would have been putting it very mildly indeed.

"My lord, with all due respect," he began quietly, hesitantly, "you cannot possibly be serious! Leave a man mostly trained as a musician, as an entertainer, in charge of an entire kingdom?! Surely one of your retired generals would prove far more capable than I!"

"I cannot leave the position to our remaining armed forces; the move would look like a military coup!" the prince rejoindered. "I meant what I said. I've known you since I was but a lad myself; I know you to be honorable and clever, and I trust you as a friend. I'm not granting you a regency, just asking you to look after my house while I am away – possibly less than ten days."

"But it will amount to the same thing to the public!" the knighted minstrel (for that was what he truly was) objected. "How can I possibly 'look after things' without ruling?"

"Oh, it will be simple enough in the short term," Gérard easily brushed off the man's rather reasonable concerns, taking another drink himself, pushing the now-empty plate away. "Don't impede the police in the course of their duty. Don't pass any new laws. Don't hear cases or sentence criminals – in fact, don't even enter the Yellow Hearing Room for any reason at all. I will take care of it all upon my return," he stood up, walking over to where the copies of the nautical charts were kept. Fletcher stood also.

"And if you do not… return?"

The prince stopped in his tracks to look back at him, then laughingly blustered, "Don't be ridiculous – of _course_ I'm coming home!"

But the smile slowly dropped off his face.

"Wait for me no longer than five years, in the absence of the others," he answered more seriously. "Whatever the people have to do to survive – let them, even if it means clearing more land to farm." A whisper of a sad smile crossed his features. " 'The Rule of the People By the People' isn't the end of the world, you know. I lived under a legal system like this on Shadow Earth for a few years, a government by popular vote. But it is far messier and more difficult to run and maintain than the monarchy our land has always known."

There was a saying of men on Shadow Earth that Gérard was sure he had heard at least once, possibly more often than that: 'be careful of what you wish for – you just might get it.' For a shadow-being who was subject to the 'reality' that they lived in, this might be considered a relatively sound warning, but the sentiment had always seemed almost laughably trite to a Prince of Amber such as he, a man accustomed to the idea of making what he would of 'reality' to his best advantage (even though he was less greedy than his siblings in this regard.) What the Barimens wished _was_ largely their experience of the world, always had been, and presumably always would be; that things could be otherwise had been completely inconceivable.

Under any other circumstances, it would've been a pleasure to be getting away like this, even with the inevitable labor that was a part of such a venture, paired with the comforting familiarity of a life he had almost always known. Oberon had spared none of his sons true work, at least in their youth; the existence of a sailor had been much of Gérard's early education once out from under his grandfather's comparatively scanty tutelage, for he had been deemed unsuitable for the majority of the higher magicks and philosophical learning the old man would have otherwise provided him. The constant negotiating of wind and wave and weather, changing the rigging and the furl of the sails, the below-deck rudder-work in the older vessels, the eternal watching of the sea: they had all become as much a part of him as any part of his body. If the prince gave the matter any thought at all (which he usually didn't), Amber's fleets felt much more like home to him than the Castle did anymore.

But, for the first time in his long life, Gérard felt the light twinge of guilt and regret that normally came only to shadow-beings on the heels of that old traditional wishing remark. Indeed, it appeared that he would be getting exactly what he had desired since the Great Storm – his relative liberty on the oceans of Shadow once more – but the cost was still almost too great for his conscience. Amber would be nearly unprotected, for all her showy walls and fortresses, an all-but-hollow show of power, with practically nothing to back it up.

_No, that is the old thinking_ , he reproved himself, bending to concentrate on the pile of nautical and astronomical maps – ancient, priceless artworks of cartography that he was recklessly scribbling notes over as if they were nothing more than a builder's blueprints. The blockade of Shadow itself would protect his homeland from threats from without while he was away, and he trusted to Lord Rein and the remaining retainers to see to it that no threats from within could truly foment. The old but highly experienced Captain Thoben had already been signed on for the venture, along with the scanty but necessary skilled crew of about a dozen middle-aged men and just over a score-and-a-half of boys: green recruits. These, along with the families of those left to work the shipyards and fisheries, had been preparing the standing rigging and loading the hull of the HMS Silversheen. She was a rather small brig – only a two-masted affair – but more than adequately canvassed with a goodly mixture of square and triangular sails, so that she could sail both with and against any decent wind, rather like a modern sailboat. Only _far_ larger. There were just two decks below (the bottom one chiefly being filled up with their supplies and rough ballast at present), but none of the ceilings ever ran lower than six feet: Gérard pretty much demanded that of any vessel he voluntarily boarded, even though he still had to stoop fairly often below deck on these smaller ships. The craft was truly meant to accommodate three times as many sailors, but they could make due with the number at hand, although it meant that the schedule of the watches would be rather tight at times, depending on the weather.

While that routine physical work was being completed, the prince had been mentally toiling over settling the newer, quicker route that could be traversed in _both_ directions, unlike the old one which operated along two completely separated shadow-tracks – worlds apart, so that the wind could be at one's back both ways, a boon to the older vessels still afloat but unnecessary for the most part anymore.

The official public proclamation of both the venture and Lord Rein's new temporary title were slated for the next day, first to be addressed to the convened court of the nobles, then pronounced by heralds to the countryside, with the prince himself announcing his intentions to the City. Rein's intended position was almost intrinsically powerless – the closest the land had come yet to a 'figurehead' – but it had felt even more irresponsible to simply leave the proverbial seat vacant, especially after everything that had happened recently. The man's chief duty was to be briefed daily on the police actions in the city and to make official records for the prince's judication upon his return. Simple as the job was on the surface, Fletcher was still terribly worried, and he wasn't the only one; there were numerous people in the palace who were already aware of Gérard's plan. But it couldn't be helped. The prince was merely playing the hand that had been dealt him as best he could; his choices concerned their collective welfare.

The following morning ran about as smoothly as could be expected. The prince did not mince or sugar-coat his words for those gathered to hear, but spoke plainly of their national plight and what he deemed to be the cause – and the solution, one which would aid their trade relations in ages to come, regardless of whatever-else happened in the meantime. Certain nobles had initially objected to Rein's appointment in the more private assembly in the Castle's feasting hall beforehand… but they were made to remember just how imposing-nigh-intimidating Rilga's strongest son could be when he believed himself to be defending the side of right. Rein might've been powerless in himself, but a mountainous titan of a man stood both behind him and for him, with no question left that there _would_ be consequences for going against Gérard's wishes in this. There were no further grumblings – at least not in the prince's presence.

And so it was, upon the sixteenth of the ngan of Desta in the approximate anno of 2390.5 d'L, that the hope of Amber – such as it was – was met at the docks by a large crowd: families waving goodbye to their remaining sons, some to their fathers, others the prince himself. Really, it was a common enough traditional show of warmth in the mercantile fleets to do this, but Gérard could not entirely ignore the plaintiveness on some of those faces remaining ashore as he rowed himself out to the Silversheen, the ship alive with busyness and commotion and fresh-faced boys (some already aloft in the rigging), shouting their farewells and waving for all they were worth. Once the prince was aboard, they raised anchor.

Amber was in all likelihood one of the few places in any of the worlds where this seemingly haphazard crew was not an automatic recipe for irreparable disaster. The sea was in this people's blood, so-to-speak, possibly even moreso than those who merely dwelt below it in Rebma. The youths aboard this vessel had known the proper knots and when and how to tie them since they were old enough to first tie their own shoes, had learned to tell standing rigging from running rigging before they went to school, had been practicing on small play crafts and their fathers' vessels in harbor throughout childhood. They were sons of sailors, who were sons of sailors, who were sons of sailors, with the understanding that as soon as they turned sixteen – the age of legal adultdom in Amber's neo-medieval society still – that they, too, would enter the fleets, either fighting for king and country if need be, or plowing the deep in search of good business deals and occasional adventure… the adventure part rather obviously looming large in his young crew's imagination at the moment. This aspect of the voyage had proven to be unsurprisingly popular among the city's children, a chance to make a real difference in their families daily lives. Gérard actually could've had twice as many small but able bodies at his disposal, but his requirements for signing on had been very strict: none younger than fourteen years of age, with active experience on at least one supervised expedition into Shadow (even a short one), and not given to any sort of tantrums, rebellion, fits of crying or anger, or too much fantasizing – especially that last point. There would be no hiding the shadow-shifts on this Sail; his crew had to be doubly sound of mind.

A fresh, fair wind of Gérard's desire came out of the north, smelling of the Forest, filling the sails and gradually propelling the brigantine out of the harbor and south over the Rebman sea, out beyond it toward the horizon, beyond the wheeling shore gulls, as the first mate piped up the tack orders to those aloft, the prince gone to take his place at the prow of the ship. She rode light and easy with the relatively gentle dip-and-swell of the waves sending up their salt spray; a herd of dolphins were currently pacing her, but they too turned away before she was out of sight of the shore, the bright sun gleaming off their silvered backs, sparkling off the great unconquerable blue.

The unnamed Ocean of the True World – as mysterious and wild and gigantic as the primordial waters that swaddled Shadow-Earth's Pangaea in dim eons past. The last man to even attempt to circle this aquatic wilderness had been Osric Barimen, their eldest brother, long-dead now; he had gotten all the way to the other side of the Nothing before his crew mutinied and he was forced to trump away from the ship to save his life! The other men on that particular voyage were never heard from again. It was surprisingly easy to put out of mind what this place truly was, that it was even here, for it was rarely traversed for long before shifting away into the oceans and seas of Shadow. And yet… there was always this moment – which was coming up on them fast now – when you lost sight of Amber's coastline, and suddenly you were alone in that limbo, just you and your companions and the sea and the sky (and the sun, if you were lucky)… and the entire world seemed like a slate wiped clean, like anything was possible…

The prince's gaze momentarily shifted northward (they had set out south-southeast) to watch it happen… only to see a boy dive off the deck, the blank terror in his eyes unmistakable! The bo'sun barely had time to shout, "Man overboard!" before the prince dove into the brine after him with fire in his eye and indignation in his chest! He had the deserter subdued and back on deck in two minutes flat; once they were both back on their feet, Gérard back-handed him so hard across the face that it knocked him down, decorating the entire left cheek with a hand-shaped welt!

"You would have drowned before you ever reached the shore, you little coward!" he roundly scolded him before calling all new hands to the forecastle. The land disappeared unwatched.

"It would seem that at least one of you did not fully understand what it was that he was signing on for," the prince addressed them all, still dripping wet, as the shamed boy struggled back to his feet, carefully stretching out the crick in his neck, rubbing it. "This is no trawling expedition about the Bay, nor a pleasure cruise up the coast! Young you may be, yet limited access to the worlds of Shadow is practically your birthright as the sons of Amber's great navy. I am aware that when it comes to worldly experience you currently have little, and experience outside of Amber you have almost none, aside of the stories you have heard from your fathers and your fathers' friends. I did not require this of you, and until you all have had the chance for your own to develop, you may rely upon _mine_. What I require is steady hands, strong bodies, stout hearts. If you can provide these and follow orders, all will be well. As you are doubtless aware, our numbers are few, but not impossible – every one of you must fulfill the tasks assigned him for this ship to run at all, let alone well; I can influence the water and the wind, but not the rigging. Now, before we make more sail, do any of you have any questions or concerns you wish to put to me? I punish none for honesty, only insubordination," he glanced in passing at the soggy youth who still couldn't look him in the eye. A timid hand was raised. "Yes – you."

"Do you think we're going to run into any sea-monsters along the new route you've charted for us?"

A little of the tension went out of Gérard's considerable frame and he gave a small lip-smile. "No, lad; the waters we will pass over in Shadow will only have relatively docile fish, no matter the size or kind; we made sure of that beforehand. But a fair question. Are there any others? Speak now."

All were at silent attention.

"All right, then – back to your posts with you."

As one they all made for where they had been previously stationed, a few clambering back up the rat lines, including the attempted deserter; Gérard caught him by the shoulder, though, but not hard.

"Not _you_ ," he pulled him back to deck. "Get you below for this one watch; go and see if the cook needs any help in the galley. Tell him I sent you."

"Aye, m'lord," the kid muttered, flushed with embarrassment besides, and slunk below deck.

Gérard looked back at the captain at the wheel, heaving a sigh; the old man simply nodded and gave half a shrug before turning his weathered face out a few points to starboard, gently turning the ship.

Gérard Barimen was definitely of the 'old school' when it came to certain things. He firmly believed in the value of corporal punishment, but only when he deemed it truly deserved, fearing the dangers of 'sparing the rod' and all that. To say nothing of ship discipline: had that brat been a full-grown man (as was judged in their country) and pulled that stunt, he would've gotten a few fast lashes from the bo'sun, and less provisions for a few days, besides. As it was, the prince fully expected the cook to give that boy something to eat once he heard what had happened, and to put him to work doing some mundane and repetitive task to ease his nerves, like peeling pounds of potatoes or plucking a chicken or two for their dinner. He couldn't afford to have his scanty crew having panic attacks before he had even started the process of shadow-shifting!

He had to admit that the other boy who'd spoken up had held a valid point, though. Amber was technically free to sail wherever she wished – wherever her princes had any desire to go, strongly enough that others could follow – but that didn't mean it wasn't still dangerous in the outer reaches of Shadow. They had the power to literally sail straight off the edges of the proverbial map, where unspeakable monsters lay in wait for little floating wooden crafts bearing tiny screaming morsels of salty meat and bone. There was many a heinous disaster in their ancient past that none spoke of or called to mind, outrageously cruel casualties of curiosity – a learning curve, as it were. The paths in the sea had had to be forged, it was finally determined, so that proper, safer regular trade routes to locales frequently visited could be established. This had chiefly been the task of Gérard's eldest brothers, long ago, starting with Benedict. After the terrible scandal and subsequent assassination of the first two princes (the record stated 'honorable death in battle', but the account certainly didn't read that way), their father had resolved to keep his future progeny busier to avoid further embarrassment. But he needn't have worried: Benedict had been perfect for the job – long, lanky, direly serious Benedict, with his seemingly eternal patience and the concentration abilities of a monk, bending the shadows to his unbreakable will day after day, season after season, year after long Amberite year. Eric and Corwin had also had a hand in the endeavor later on, but Benedict had borne the brunt of that great labor alone, and had carefully orchestrated the rest that he had not been physically present to oversee.

One of Prince Benedict's most marvelous achievements in this had been the altering of the night sky above the oceans upon which he sailed, setting signs in the heavens – groups of easily recognizable constellations in specific shadows, bright and magnificently fiery astronomical displays – to aid in navigating the roads in the deep, going so far as to compose mythological stories to go with each set and how they interconnected with each other. The prince's 'fairytales' were so well-liked and easy to remember that everyone alive in Amber's mercantile fleets had been taught them as children, including the children currently on deck: the tale of the princess and the arrogant sea-dragon that she alone was able to tame at last by means of a magical flute, leading to the beast's 'golden horde' (in Begman wheat and barley); the legend of the wise giant who decided one day to see how far the distance was from fear to love and had many adventures in his land (which may or may not have been based on some wisp of truth from the shadow Ledorne in eons past); the fable of the Deigan serving girl who had to make a cloak of all the healing herbs and spices in her master's garden to salve the sorrow that cursed him – the botanicals all described and explained in scrupulous detail, verse by verse, a veritable medicine chest's worth of knowledge woven into the telling, practical first aid for any who could understand it. Indeed, knowing beforehand their ultimate scope and reach, Benedict had acted according to his nature in crafting the tales, handing down wisdom and knowledge as a father would teach his children, to increase their chances of success.

Traversing places where a compass, or indeed most navigational tools, were of little use if one got lost – where all else about one was in a state of seemingly constant flux – these long and complex yet highly recognizable plot-yarns in the skies had been a godsend, saving many a crew who would've otherwise perished after a heavy storm when their ship had gotten blown badly off-course. It was not uncommon to hear of survivors who said it was Mestrin the Sorcerer or Shrilykra the Ice Lady who had helped them in their hour of need, as if these were real, sentient entities with deity-like powers. Of course, such speech came naturally enough anyway from a largely Animist population, but it was still high praise indeed of old Benedict's work. Someday – one day – perhaps if fate was kind to them, the old paths could be resurrected once more; Gérard hated the thought of all that effort and artistry going to waste, but at present it couldn't be helped. If he had started out right away there might've been time to follow them, but there was no point in ruminating over that, either.

And neither could the prince lean on the usual device he had come to rely upon over the years: Gw'thronadr the Shadow Opener, Gérard's silver horn, was every bit as legendary as any of the weapons he and his siblings had ever wielded. The artifact itself – a simple yet beautifully wrought hunting horn – had been a gift from Julian in days long past, when both of Gérard's elder blood-brothers were still attempting to curry his affection (and, subsequently, his muscle)… before the boy grew up fully and it became too apparent that he wasn't like either of them at all. He still cared for them both, but that love could never be purchased or superficially altered in any way, shape or form.

The horn _could_ , though, as it turned out; his grandfather had seen a fitting use for it almost right away, but refrained from doing anything about it or even mentioning the idea until years later, once the prince's father deemed him seaworthy from his probationary 'training' in Shadow and it had been formally decided that he was to enter Amber's navy under Caine's tutelage. Dworkin had come to Gérard's quarters in the middle of the night – the night before he was to ship out – and secretly took him to the foot of Tir-na Nog'th by means of his considerable sorcery. The full moon rode high as the young prince's grandsire talked him through the ritual as bluntly as he possibly could in the Ghost City, of how to weave the Pattern into the metal… The next day, once his ship had embarked and they were finally out on the high seas of Shadow, out of sight of land, Gérard had simply walked up to the prow of the ship and blown the new, magically-augmented horn, concentrating as he had been instructed a mere six hours earlier… and the coast of their destination came into view almost immediately due south, days ahead of schedule and in the wrong direction by the charts! Gérard had laughed and laughed as his elder brother spluttered in consternation, but refused to make outright mockery of him, telling the crew that he had been ordered to test the new device and that no one else was to know of it beforehand in case it didn't work (which was technically true.) It still took Caine many years to forgive him for humiliating him thus in front of all his men.

But from that day forward, whenever the ships of Amber had to cross uncharted waters to gain a new shadowworld that had never been visited, or might not be visited twice – or if unnatural swiftness of transit was deemed necessary for any number of reasons – Gérard would be placed at the head of the fleet to sound Gw'thronadr… and the shadows about them would bend and flow and alter at the speed of sound waves, into the very world they needed to reach! Ships that appeared and abruptly disappeared began to enter the legends of Shadow, like the Flying Dutchman of the sea mythology of Shadow Earth: the briefest glimpses of that arcane transit, not unlike a hellride, only smoother in most cases.

But even this power had been denied him, for while the efficacy of Gw'thronadr was undeniable, it was also short-lived: the effect left no trail in Shadow that any could follow, save ships in the immediate party. It never lasted long enough for them even to be tailed by an enemy; Amberite vessels could simply vanish on people! No, the prince was forced to perform the task the old way – with brute willpower, just as those who had accomplished the feat before him. But if even hot-headed Eric and impatient Corwin had been able to set the watery ways farther out in Shadow, then there was no reason that _he_ could not as well.

The old path from Amber to Begma – the first of all of them – had been colloquially nicknamed 'The Highway of the Gods' and for good reason: those on the route always enjoyed good weather and a relatively sedate sea no matter the time of day or year or passage, with a steady cooperative wind to fill the sails – in _both_ directions, for it was two-tracked, one set of shadows to embark upon and a different set to return. The new route that Gérard had proposed, in comparison, was a single wide track that followed several high pressure weather systems, which was still decent enough; instead of almost never seeing traffic, the ships would pass each other on the right-hand side now. But the tradeoff for relatively safe seas and mostly workable wind conditions had been the heavens: specifically, there would be no less than four major shifts where the celestial bodies – and perhaps even the sky itself – would be drastically different, and there would be no hiding this from the crew. Even that, under more normal circumstances, would not have been a problem: the old hands in Amber's navy and mercantile fleets had seen and been through such experiences as would have driven lesser men mad; their current captain wouldn't so much as bat an eye, Gérard knew. Such changes were usually only viewed like landmarks on an otherwise featureless journey. He was less sure of those boys, though…

If the temperature had been any less balmy, the prince might've ventured below deck to the captain's quarters for dry clothing. As things stood, the sun would soon do that work itself, but not entirely; the light spray perpetually blasting off the prow would basically render the exercise moot in the end, he decided, and so stayed where he was, as he was. Taking a deep breath, Gérard let it out slowly as he gradually closed his eyes; navigational charts and maps had not been his only assigned 'homework' the previous evening. Benedict had worked out an exact (and exacting) method for making permanent cuts in Shadow like this, with the necessary state of mind meditative. Shifting on the water was harder in the first place, for there were no regular points in scenery that could be altered as when one shifted upon the land – and the land was usually not constantly bucking and rolling underneath one, at that! This was not, however, an exercise in the emptying of the self, but rather a taking _into_ the self that which was without oneself – destroying the barrier between the worlds of shadow and the worker's will in the process – to move shadow as if only moving a part of one's own body, as an almost godlike extension that flowed in and became _one_.

Ever-so-slowly, the prince's breathing became like the wind, in time with the heaving of the waves, the very blood in his veins pulsing with the tide, the boom of the ocean his heart, the blazing star above merely a manifestation of the fire in his soul, the sky his eyes… he opened them and commenced to concentrate, dead to the orders piped up to the riggers, the flurry of activity all about him on deck (which was more flurrious than usual due to their company's small numbers), seemingly as much a part of the ship now as the figurehead of the siren in the surf that was carved just below the bowsprit. The wind picked up and the captain recognized the sign for what it was, giving the order for more canvas; he was well and truly in charge of the voyage now for all practical purposes. As long as the pilot kept to the set of bearings which they had all agreed upon, they would see the shores of Begma in as little as five days time. Thoben had been ordered to make in the direction of the Isles of the Sun south of Amber, but then to veer off to the northwest at the rising of Negril's moon Cleonid, cutting through the Sea of Dregath and past the Towering Stairs – a strange ancient volcanic formation – before taking the Skrewald current due west, cutting the regular duration of their time at sea in half, a new record for speed! Provided that the prince didn't fall from the bow of the ship entranced… the captain ordered one of the off-duty boys from below decks to come keep an eye on Gérard: the beginnings of a safety watch. For all their sakes.

Were it not for the hard labor at hand for those still ambulatory and alert about the decks, it would've been rather tempting to join the mentally distant prince's watch of the ocean; only the old hands could more or less ignore the subtle yet beautiful changes that kept happening all about them. Without the stringently enforced 'watches' below deck, all sense of time would've quickly slipped away as the seemingly eternal blue over which they rode pulsed shade – double, like a relaxed heartbeat – until it could no longer be strictly said to be _blue_ … the very liquid over which they rode was edging into a deep violet without any explanatory tint of sunrise or set – and that sun was bleached to pure white now… and neither did it appear to be moving anymore; it hadn't in over an hour! High, wispy cirrus clouds feathered by – sparkling golden, reflecting the water – until they were swallowed up by the distant horizon that was shading a hazy aqua-green… then again, maybe not; it was surprisingly easy to lie to oneself about some of the more subtle changes in the stimuli at hand, writing it off as a side-effect of the heat. It had grown humidly hot by what should have been evening by the hourglass (and yet that sun rode as if it were only mid-afternoon), the salt spray a welcome relief. It was only after dinner that most of the boys got their first real shock upon coming back topside: a gigantic cratered red planet – easily fifty times the size of Amber's moon – had eclipsed the sun while they were below off-duty, their compatriots yet aloft screaming for them to get up here and see this; the phenomenon had appeared without warning! The bo'sun allowed them to gawk for about a minute before ordering them all to pick their jaws up off the deck like Amberites and get back to work! The sky had accordingly darkened, both in light intensity and hue – definitely a forest green now – and no less than five more planets and moons of varying atmosphere, size and description rose more naturally as the sun finally set; the largest had a deep-blue swirled, clouded countenance that fairly crackled with lightning beneath the gaseous blanket, while the smallest might've been a large meteor – dark, pocked and misshapen, thrust from gods-knew-where out of the bowels of Shadow-space.

And yet for all these strange wonders their way lay even, the waters brisk and easy, the wind mostly in their favor, a bit high at times, but not sufficiently so to damage the sails or to drive them too badly off-course. There was no precipitation whatsoever – a rarity at sea. The other wonder, of course, was that the prince hadn't so much as blinked this entire time, being so transfixed upon his great reckoning. He hadn't stirred for anything: food nor drink nor rest. Just standing there as if he were made of painted and clothed stone, braced against the front railing of the ship. If any had doubted that a prince of Amber was essentially made of no different stuff than any other native of the True City, this feat alone would've cowed even the most hardened of skeptics… and he showed no sign of tiring, of knocking off for the night. The situation turned out to be a slight embarrassment for the captain: of all the things that had been discussed and hammered out before they even left the harbor back in Amber, the prince had completely omitted instructions for what to do about _this_ – for in truth Gérard had privately intended to permit himself no respite at all until their destination had been safely achieved, so great was his sense of personal responsibility for the lives of those onboard! He would mould the worlds to his will; all _would_ be well on his long watch. He was leaving nothing to chance.

Except – ironically enough – himself. When it became apparent that he would go below for nothing, the first mate cautiously approached him, timidly asking his lord if he would not like some sustenance to be brought up to him. The man received no sign of acknowledgement at all, yet he went below decks and fetched a tankard of grog. Bringing it back topside, and with great trepidation, he touched the back of the prince's right hand with the chill metal, addressing him again, repeating his question. Gérard's blank expression didn't change a jot, but he took the tankard, drained it in a single draught, and held it out in the direction from whence it had come, with a single, momentously slow nod of acknowledgement. The man ran and came back with another; it also was drained in like manner, but the prince made no sign after the second, and they were forced to leave him be; it was either that or risk raising his anger for distracting him from literally keeping the world about them stable! But now they had a rough idea of what was needed to attempt to care for the one thing that Gérard was not thinking of at the moment.

When the sky finally darkened sufficiently that galaxies-worth of stars could be observed (two of those closer heavenly bodies had set along with the sun; had the vessel been close to any land, those giant orbs would've wreaked havoc on any coast or harbor with vast, quick changes in tide), the ancient cartographer who had signed onto this trip finally came topside for the first time all day, to map those stars and planets by lamplight, to mark their positions in relation to how many watches the ship had traveled, and in which generalized directions, to work through the night and retire in the morning. As the evening grew chill, the captain himself fetched a thick wool cloak and hoisted the article about the prince's shoulders before turning in for his own allotted time of rest. The boy whose life Gérard had saved had first watch with the prince that night; for all the world it was like having to guard a statue. But this was a living idol, with the wind of his life filling their sails like his lungs. The pilot took the helm until dawn.

And such a dawn: fiery gold crying across the horizon at its own splendor, lapping through a lingering silvery mist that had formed over the water, painting opalescent mirages in the sky about the eerily familiar-yet-different star that was rising for the Day, alone in the heavens to reign once more.

And yet the prince stood! As the temperature rose, the woolen cloak was removed in passing, as if from a very tall coat-rack. The cook managed some liquefied rations for him, and these were accepted as before, some tiny shred of Gérard's mind left to run his body.

This day was experientially similar to its predecessor: relatively good weather – just a few more clouds, but nothing threatening – and a following sea… even if the heavens took strange turns at totally unexpected moments; the pilot began to announce when they were due for the next major shift over the amplifier in the attempt to minimize the shock on their younger passengers. Granted, some of them were handling it better than others, but no more truly bad cases of freakout had occurred; so far, so good.

One change was that they had a little more fauna in the seas they were currently traversing – basically harmless, as the prince had predicted, but still definitely strange by Amberite standards. There was the colony of sizable glassy seasnakes all sunbathing at the surface of a warm ocean – thousands of them – all syllabically hissing at each other like an entire phylum of gossips, their skin and muscles crystal clear so that not only their internal organs were on display, but also what they had been eating! None showed more than mild annoyance at the presence of the brigantine cutting through their numbers, but the snakes in turn were copiously noted and recorded in detail onboard. Later in the day, one of the off-duty boys had spotted a more normal-looking school of smaller fish that the vessel seemed to be passing over; he cast down a homemade line and actually caught one, but upon hoisting it shipside and removing the gasping, flailing creature from the simple nail hook, the fish promptly shot some vile-smelling green junk in the boy's face, galloped across the deck on its fins, climbed the railing, and flung itself back into the ocean! The boy was lucky: the substance had stung his eyes badly, but it was only the fish's gastric juices, as was determined by the ship's aged doctor, and after swift and thorough rinsing with saltwater it was estimated that he would fully recover his sight before they reached Begma, although he would receive less pay than the others in recompense for the time he spent laid-up below for being foolish. Suffice to say, no one was tempted in the least by the brilliant-yellow marlin-like dinosaurs that kept abreast of them for a while in the evening as they plowed the current of Joto, due south of the Aeventiri – 'fairy isles' they would be dubbed on Shadow Earth – a well-marked set of regularly recurring mirages that signaled an electromagnetic abnormality which never changed in this particular area of the Sea of Tharsis, making them one of the few natural 'landmarks' generally known to Amber in the deep in any Shadow.

As night descended, the deserted volcanic-red alien beaches of Slipher could finally be made out to the north-northwest in the distance by telescope, which meant it was time to change course to the west to catch them; at this rate, they would reach them by dawn. There wasn't even a moon, and yet the sky blazed with a meteor shower, a pastel lightshow that had in all likelihood never been viewed by any sentient creature in the history of history. The prince was brought his meal and grog to drink; the cloak was brought after and reverently wrapped about him by the boy whose job it was to watch him for the first four hours tonight. He still hadn't moved a muscle except to do a few basic things necessary for life. His endurance was simply appalling to behold; even the legendary Benedict had had to rest!

Power. Strength. Gérard's was the stuff of myths and tall tales, and for good cause, _many_. Yet it was precisely that strength had had driven his father to order him to sea, to follow in his elder brother Caine's example. As a youth, Gérard had not only never known his own strength, so-to-speak, but he had sincerely believed himself to be indestructible, taking successively greater and greater risks, dares to prove to the world that while he might've been found lacking in cleverness and deep thought, no man living could ever pray to achieve his level of physical prowess: he was both Sampson and Goliath combined! But when one of those self-imposed challenges had ended in the unintentional death of the son of one of his nobles, Oberon finally resolved – in spite of the prince's true sorrow and outward contrition – that it was time for his strongest son to learn that there was one thing in the World which was and would always be stronger than he.

In all seriousness, though, the king had been contemplating this particular move on the prince's behalf for quite some time, albeit for a completely different reason… and yet, not so different in a way. For you see, while it is widely rumored that the princes of Amber can never truly love as other men do, the idea still holds a single grain of truth: they are indeed born with fully-functioning emotional hearts, but they usually burn down to almost nothing over the course of their incredibly long lives; to feel so much for so long would be enough to kill any sentient being, or at least to drive them mad! And, like almost everything else about him, Gérard's capacity for caring and affection had been significantly larger than that of his brothers' to start out with, a potential 'weakness' that his father genuinely feared both for his son and for himself. And so he determined to force at least some of it out of the prince faster, for Gérard's own sake.

The initial lesson was a hard one, as was anticipated: the young prince was spared _nothing_ ; no hardship common to the experience of mortals was withheld. The prince watched as intelligent, skilled men perished in storms – swept overboard in squalls, suddenly rendered helpless as a small child's dolls in the face of the merciless rage of the elements. He was on vessels that were attacked in war and attacked by wild nature – by outrageous sea-monsters out of legend; he had stared the proverbial leviathan in the eye… before having to harpoon it out, to save his crew once. The king's method was excessively cruel, yet effective; sufficient repetition of varying death and disaster dulled the prince's reaction to it over the years…

But never _killed_ it, as such 'exposure therapy' would have done in anyone else. Instead, Gérard's anger and anguish smeltered down into something almost painfully noble, yet tempered with reason: there was a time and a place for superhuman heroics as well as a time to cut loose, to let go, and remember the honorably fallen instead. By the prince's own estimation, his current situation was more than adequate occasion for such heroics. And he never got over the sheer enormity of the limitless, never-ending oceans of Shadow: this was the one place that he had always truly felt small, even though he would never openly admit such a thing to anyone. His brothers believed themselves to be gods in the shadow-worlds, but Gérard knew better. He had learned the lesson of his father well.

And, in spite of it all, the prince grew to genuinely love the sea regardless of its inherent dangers and cruelties – as many mortal men do – and when his 'apprenticeship' was up and he was given the choice, he chose to remain with Amber's more normal navy of his own freewill (unless his father required his presence on a battlefield somewhere; as strong-nigh-supreme as Amber was, there were yet petty shadow-peoples that would attempt to attack them occasionally.) It was a hard but personally rewarding life that required physical, mental, and spiritual endurance, as well as complete cooperation for the survival and well-being of all hands onboard. In short, it really was the perfect place for the strongest and most honorable of Oberon Barimen's sons.

The dawn of the third day seemed oddly groggy, nearly fogged in, the greenish sun struggling to lift itself above the horizon. Once some of the moisture in the air had burned off in a pearly haze, it was apparent that the wind had blown them slightly off-course to the north during the night, but not irreparably so; the captain gave the orders to adjust tack, and soon enough they were on the correct track again, although the wind was not quite as regular as it had been before. The Crags of Grisbon were, amazingly, coming up hard to starboard: this was the great turn in their journey, the one that should set them on a direct course for Begman waters in another couple of days. As wild as the proposition was psychologically, the crew had settled into their routine for the most part, with a case or two of nerves being 'medicated' with alcohol until they could return home; as stringent as the prince had been in his stipulations for signing on, not everyone was mentally cut out for obvious shadow-travel.

And speaking of shadows… the Crags of Grisbon in the world named Acedra had never been inhabited, not even by seabirds, crustaceans or barnacles. No fish ever swam these accursedly sterile waters, for the salinity level here was simply too high to support life. And yet… perhaps it was just a visual trick of the unusually dim morning, but some of the boys high aloft in the ratlines had just spotted a shadow that was flowing in slow-motion below the brigantine, formless like a black ghost, like a huge inkspill in the water… until it began to solidify into an undulating many-armed form that was all too recognizable indeed, and far too large – at least three times the size of the ship – and far too close! And, by the looks of it, of the rising movement of the water, getting closer!

"All hands on deck! All hands on deck!" the bo'sun rang out the alarm, as racks of harpoons were brought up from the hold, rapidly filling mostly unsteady and unpracticed hands: they were not yet far enough from Amber that the Silversheen's cannons would ignite, let alone fire! If the monster truly attacked the ship, their odds of survival were very bleak, especially with the prince's trumps all out-of-order, by his own reckoning…

The _prince_! They had very nearly forgotten him in their panic, figurehead of flesh and blood that he was at the prow of his own ship! The first mate rushed up to him – harpoon already in hand – and shook the big man as hard as he could by the shoulder, barely moving him; Gérard's eyes were bloodshot, half-closed, with very dark rings about them.

"My lord, my lord, we need you! The ship and crew are in grave danger! Command us, and we will stand and fight! My lord? Can you _hear_ me?! For the love of the Unicorn please answer, I beseech you!"

With a great start that actually startled the first mate into leaping a full pace back in knee-jerk reaction, Gérard came to, blinking a few times; he had not been truly asleep, but all but!

"What?! Where?! What's going on?!" he thundered!

"See for yourself, my lord – off the port bow!" the man frantically gestured; Gérard followed it and peered out into the deep at the ominous, black figure that was floating there directly beneath the ship… and realized in a flash what had happened!

"Orders, my lord!" the first mate pressed. "Should we make for the Crags in spite of the shoals?"

" _Silence_!" the prince irritatedly barked: the threat was of his own making, and so he should be able to unmake it! Forcibly calming himself once more, closing his eyes, he was almost surprised at how simple it was to return to that meditative state now… and he reached out through it, into the depths of the ocean below them, that cold, unforgiving, harsh, soulless, alien brine…

… and the black creature began to stretch and drift in the current below, as if it had been nothing more than some kind of infernal cloud formation, as if they rode not upon the sea at all, but upon the very top of another shadow's sky… the threatening shape simply dissipated into the water, dissolving...

Gone.

Gérard wrenched open his eyes again and breathed a huge sigh of relief upon seeing the water clear. That had been far too close for all concerned; that shape had been conjured up by his own subconscious as his mind began to drift from fatigue this morning in that connected state… and had very nearly manifested as _real_ in a world of Shadow!

All were silent and still up on deck, but now all those gawking eyes were turned full upon the prince; some of the men blessed themselves.

Gérard knew he had to have looked as haggard and weary as he currently felt. He hadn't so much as splashed fresh water on his face in three days, his features were unusually gaunt from dehydration, his mustache and beard growing wild. And gods were his eyes heavy, the skin about them stung raw. Whether he wanted to or not, he _had_ to rest; they had to stop here for at least a couple of hours.

"I must go below for a time," he announced informally to any and all who were listening, suddenly feeling just how dry his throat had become, wearily lumbering toward the stairs; the boys and men parted to let him pass, genuine awe written on many faces. "Any who is of like mind should do the same."

'The same' here being as blatantly obvious as their savior's current level of fatigue, and the invitation was most welcome. The anchor was lowered and a watch was set on deck, the second mate and a few boys who had slept more recently. The rest all took the time to relax at various pastimes, or to follow his highness' example in taking a badly needed and well-deserved nap, filling the hammocks in the sailors' quarters. As for Gérard, the captain had graciously offered him his bed, but the prince good-naturedly refused the kind offer, stating quite frankly that his weight would break the slats, saying nothing of the fact that the attached footboard would literally get kicked off across the room during the course of his sleep, possibly damaging the ship! These sorts of issues had been a lifelong problem for the big man, but he had become rather adept at accommodating himself by now. Having dealt with this many times in the past during his long years of travel, the prince had once deliberately set out for a land of shadow that made sturdy enough hammocks that would comfortably fit his oversized frame… and was surprised to find himself floating off the coast of Central America on Shadow Earth, of all places! While he spoke not a word of the locals' language, he was able to communicate in pantomime what it was he was searching for, and was quite satisfied with the result: brightly woven Mayan hammocks that the natives used for everyday beds they were so comfortable, some of which were Gérard-sized! He successfully managed to barter for a dozen of them with the gold stater of his own realm (pure gold was valuable everywhere in Order), figuring that anything so lightly constructed would wear out in a hurry, having to bear his weight. But he was happily proven wrong… mostly. And so, he still took the second one (and a spare, just in case) with him whenever he traveled anywhere by sea, and sometimes by land if circumstances permitted. He now unfolded it from his pack, and – setting the necessary screws and hardware into the proper beams of the ship – mounted it in the captain's quarters, taking up all the free space in the middle of the room; he was soon sprawled out unconscious, rocking slightly, cocooned in a blanket, the cheerily-colored mesh stretched down to barely a foot off the floor! His dreams, if he really had any, were blank, his mind having been filled with visions for days already, and desperately hungering for the emptiness of the black. In years to come, future travelers along the prince's new Road would often remark upon the strange, ominously flowing shadows that came together and dissipated, gathered and dissipated, deep in the waters off the Crags of Grisbon: merely a phantom, but nothing more – and nothing less – than a dream of a Prince of Amber that had nearly come to _life_!

Gérard awoke only a few hours later with the need to relieve himself; rolling up out of the low hammock and slowly stretching his legs before standing, he strode over to the large floor-to-ceiling windows in the stern wall of the ship, opened one of the panes and did so. It was just as well that he was up; as badly as he had needed rest, Amber needed bread even more. The moment they reached Begma, the better-equipped merchant vessels could depart upon the new route immediately. And perhaps the Silversheen and her crew could return home by the power of Gw'thronadr… although this also had not been tried since the Storm. If it was deemed not worth the risk, another five days would be no great burden, comparatively-speaking. Hurriedly washing his face with cold water, rinsing his lengthening beard of salt, smoothing his dark, shortish hair back (by Amber standards, that is – he never let it grow past his neck anymore, it just got to be a nuisance), the prince made his way to the galley and had his first real meal since his departure: a hearty yet simple mutton stew graced with only a few root vegetables, along with pickles, a couple of apples, and more grog. He had only the vaguest memory of drinking something at intervals while he had been lost in his expanded mind, but he had no recollection at all of what it had been… although this variation of the drink had surely been part of it, he now realized; upon asking others present, he soon heard the truth of the matter and made a point of learning the names of those who had offered his largely unresponsive hulk their services while he had been thus, meaning to recognize or otherwise reward them later.

Once he was quite finished (not to _his_ liking, mind you, but sufficient for current circumstances), he rose, feeling the familiar mantle of responsibility about his shoulders – as surely as his men had wrapped him nightly against the cold – but it was not as terrible a burden as before he made his way back up topside again. Without having to say a single word, the silent cue was taken as orders: shouts were heard below, waking those still asleep who should've been on duty, boys and men dashing back to their posts. They were about to weigh anchor and make more sail due west when the prince requested their presence again over the amplifier, all hands this time; in under half-a-minute, every soul on board including the captain stood at his attention.

"I am not known as a man of many words," Gérard began, "but I wanted to make sure that you all know that I am not only aware but appreciative of the service all hands on this vessel have been giving, especially to me in my mental absence – afraid that bit was a little unplanned-for," he gave a quiet, self-deprecating little laugh. "But that aside, we are still only over halfway to our destination and I dare not force our journey any faster than I already am, not only for your sakes, but for those who must follow us." At this, he noted appreciative nods among the more experienced sailors. "We have yet several uninhabited shadow-worlds to traverse, by the course I, the pilot, and our good captain have agreed upon, places where we will ride unhindered in relative safety… provided that all hands continue to give their one-hundred-percent to our group endeavor; just because nature will not be against us does not mean we must not guard against our own shortcomings – no outside aid will be forthcoming for us, either," he soberly warned. "But I have faith in all of you, in your abilities. Just keep giving me everything you've got and the other side of this venture will see us all celebrated as heroes!" He had very nearly given the old collegiate cheer of 'Roll, Tide, Roll!' but checked himself just in time, and instead shouted, "For Amber!" with his fist raised, which was quickly picked up with enthusiasm by the crew! They were subsequently dismissed, the anchor was raised, and canvass unfurled as the ship commenced to move again.

Some of the prince's fatigue came to him unbidden flashback-style, as he resumed his own post at the prow. Before, years ago, when he had heard the already-old stories of this crossing being done for the first time, he had sort of mentally rolled his eyes at the thought of the 'work' involved, having no real idea of just how taxing this actually was on one's whole being; it was right up there with walking the Pattern in difficulty, just… _different_. The experience was more like _becoming_ the Pattern, the way that hallowed brightness traced sword, dagger and horn alike. It was blessedly easy to forget that he, too, had been reforged with that tracery, after the initiatory ordeal in the bowels of Kolvir. Gérard marveled then, for a moment, at Benedict's passionless resolve, his will hard as any diamond: had he always been thus, the prince wondered? Or had he simply trained anything that was less out of himself over the several millennia he had been alive? There was something positively alien about that cold, raw ability in his eldest brother, and yet, in spite of the strangeness, it was impossible for Gérard not to love him all the same; that nigh-emotionless goodwill had propped _him_ up on occasion.

_Brother, where stand you today?_ He flung the thought to the shadows as he began to concentrate once more. _Guiding the flow of thousands of men-at-arms? Lying dead and forgotten beneath piles of men on that accursed black plain? Riding your Glemdenning home along the long, torturous Road, the trumps in your pocket yet too warm to use?_ Even iron-made Benedict had lost his right arm in an early skirmish with these Chaos-bred monsters in the shadowworld he ruled… yes, even _he_ still had a heart (though he seemed to rarely use it anymore), for it had betrayed him one night, recognizing his own inner strength and lonely power in an enemy warrioress. Perhaps he kept what was left of it hidden away on purpose, to keep from having to face that loneliness…

Gérard's heart by comparison, for better or worse, was firmly attached to his sleeve, and the prince's own strength was often in its display as it was right now, the brigantine cutting through the white-capped waves of the Sea of Anóithe at full speed, twelve knots, as the ceilingless heights of the skies and the abstract, unsoundable deep beneath those waves retook his senses; he had resolved to try to be a little more consciously present this time, however, having some working experience with the state now.

They had left that miasmic climate behind them hours ago, along with its strange associations. The star of the day had resolved to be joyous and bright-golden once more, and while the clouds still were often tinted like cotton candy for no discernable reason to do with Amber-centric rationale, they had only briefly provided a light, warm rain that was more like mist, generating positively spectacular rainbows in its wake. The sheen of the ocean kept changing – gold to silver, silver to gold – only ever broken by pods of alien fish, colorful as parrots, some of which would break surface, whale-like, in order to breathe or otherwise communicate, filling the air with clicks, whistles, or even once an eerie, long-droning hum that resolved itself into a major 9th chord before all simultaneously dove in unison, to be seen no more. The men had broken into a chorus themselves on that occasion; the event had been strangely soul-stirring.

Toward evening on the third day, they lost the good weather for a few hours at last, and Gérard had to be roused to help; while it was only a relatively mild squall, they had feared the prince drowning, getting pummeled with wave after cold wave of water as he was! They rode it out as best they could, the majority of the canvas stowed so as to not have it destroyed by the wind, with Gérard himself at the helm, working hard to shorten the duration of it from where he was and beginning to doubt the efficacy of what would've been in any lesser being strictly self-delusional thinking… but the rain was lessening by two bells, stopped altogether by four, the wind dying back down to a manageable speed of gust once more. He had known that this sort of occurrence was possible if not likely just due to how the new track was being physically set up; it was a calculated risk, but so far the decision seemed to be paying off nicely. Any truly seaworthy vessel larger than a dinghy could've weathered a storm like that with no problem; no one would be so foolhardy as to set out in a tub upon any route in Shadow, no matter with what care that route had been constructed, or by whom for that matter! Gérard both ate and rested that night, but only for a small handful of hours as before, just enough to take the edge off so as not to endanger his crew _that_ way. But simply his being unconscious at all at this point was a risk and he knew it. Balance was key here. When he returned to his eternal-feeling watch that night, he found the aged cartographer scribbling like mad, tracing on his oversized sheets of vellum as fast as possible, his fingers stained black and blue from the ink, bent over his work by the lamplight.

"Any ideas for naming the new constellations, my lord?" he asked upon noting the prince's passing interest.

But Gérard just shook his head with a sad smile. "I'm no storyteller; name them as seems good and fitting to you."

"Yes, my lord!" the slight man straightened in his folding chair, his pale old eyes suddenly bright as the distant celestial fires he was making record of.

It was hard not to catch a little of his excitement, though: there were such stars out here, multiple swirling galaxies visible to the naked eye, two of them in the process of cannibalizing each other in a gloriously brilliant cataclysm, sending out rays of pure light energy into the black void of space! That was some being's world that was getting destroyed out there, in all likelihood, yet even in this death there was incredible beauty. Surely this sight existed so that someone could see it; even if it was only a sentimental lie, Gérard _wanted_ to believe…

The fourth day had started an ominous blood-red, but soon settled into the unnaturally nice conditions of sea and sky that the crew had nearly become accustomed to, the lack of true variation beginning to make some of the boys relax again (to the bo'sun's private consternation; they were quicker of reflex and order when they had believed their very lives hung in the balance, upon the whim of a godlike prince!)

That prince was currently pausing to take his turn at the wheel; these reefs had been too difficult to eradicate completely, but the water was clear enough through the Strait of Baculareia that the bottom could not only be seen, but was illuminated, dappling light through forests of coral and tall seaweed – some of the latter carefully harvested to supplement their remaining meals onboard, along with some fresh fish, as they passed through. Had they not done this (as most crews out of Shadow would have not, lacking the knowledge that viably safe foodstuffs could be had in this remote outpost) they would not have disturbed a small pod of mermaids: four of them nearly pulled one of the boys under for good, but threats of harpoons quickly rid them of their prize and drove them from the ship: it had only been a fair exchange of 'goods' as they seemed to understand it! The boy had protested rather strongly in spite of the near-drowning – his own interests painfully clear – but the sight of an old stripped human skeleton just outside of one of their lairs soon brought him back to his senses! The crew achieved open waters again by dark (for both physical safety as well as time), in preparation of the last leg of the journey: the race across Kantaso Meo to the waiting shores and easy anchorage of Begma, first port-of-call to the True City from of old, the breadbasket of perhaps close to dozen worlds now.

The full implications of that simple statement had never really hit home for Gérard until just now, over a simple yet good fish dinner that didn't have so much as a hardtack biscuit to balance the briny sauce and rich-tasting seaweed that had been prepared like boiled greens…

By the fateful fifth dawn, the prince was starting to have real difficulty in keeping up the level of concentration necessary, but it was not physical exhaustion that was taking him to task, but impatience that was finally proving to be a hindrance: the time that this voyage was taking – comparatively short as it was – was eating at his nerves. All he wanted was for it to be over with his whole being, but that desire alone threatened to wreak havoc upon the necessary rate of 'natural' progression required by both the ship and the crew! In the end, he had to surrender his sense of self completely to keep from consciously getting in his own way, becoming the gentle ocean, the 'rolling tide' pulling their craft inexorably onward, filling the sails with every breath…

He actually failed to notice the sweetness of the breeze that suddenly came to them, blowing eastward, the subtle scent that was not the brine none of them even smelled anymore…

"Land! Land, ho!" the cry from the crow's nest jostled him to his senses, and he blinked for a moment almost in disbelief at the sight of rolling green hills that they were swiftly coming up on! Abruptly remembering that he had legs, the prince made for the main mast in high spirits and climbed straight up the bole of it rather than risk breaking the ratlines, to get a better look himself with the spyglass!

Yes, there it was: Begma – rustic, even by Amber's standards, yet a healthy little state. Especially now: he could see that the dark blight that had been sprouting further out in the farmland like a toxic fungus was no more – the worlds were truly healed, then! Amber had been on good terms with this country practically since its discovery, and they in turn had been benefiting from Amber's involvement both politically and economically for generations upon generations. The things Oberon Barimen had allowed this people of Shadow to do…

Nevermind – they were here! Gérard touched Gw'thronadr to his lips and gave a single long blast in triumph before clambering back down. It was silly, but little tears stood in the corners of his eyes; he quickly brushed them aside as they made for the harbor.

The rising sun illuminated the sails of the Silversheen, as if she had come over the horizon riding it, her green flag with the white Unicorn flying proudly from the stern; by the time the prince's horn was heard – and recognized! – there was a sizable crowd upon the beach, some already in longboats, prepared to row out to meet them… if this was still permitted. Their own ships had been helplessly circling the bay for weeks, unable to cross out into open waters! True, the threat from the Darkness in the land had miraculously just disappeared almost one month ago to the day, but with no visitors at all from the Kingdom of Power, it was feared what had truly happened out there, coupled with their own loss of access to the Highway. But _now_ …

As the Silversheen entered the harbor, the prince took up the amplifier to address the gathered crowd, their faces a mixture of excitement, trepidation, and cautious hope.

"Fear no longer, good people of Begma!" he blasted with his powerful voice upraised. "The Darkness has been eradicated from our worlds and the Highway of the Gods is open to Amber once more! Make ready the merchant ships, those who still choose to do business with us! I repeat, the crossing is _safe_ again, but your captains and pilots must meet with mine _first_ , for the course of the Highway has been _changed_! There is only the one now – the twin paths of your ancestors are no more! The way has just been forged anew!"

This news was met with immediate cheers, joyous tears and embraces, and the signal was given from the Silversheen to allow the boats to come out to carry ashore any and all who wished to go, once the ship had been safely secured and anchored.

As for Gérard, he felt as if his own sails were currently hanging slack in the ensuing personal 'calm': it had all just caught up to him with the subtlety of a brick wall.

"Permission to go ashore to carry out your wishes, my lord?" The captain was at his side; the prince had not seen the man approach. That permission was granted with a nod of the head and a clasp on the shoulder, accompanied by a weary smile; the agreement had been that they, too, would purchase and bring back cargo as well as getting the merchants on their way to Amber.

"Make sure the others won't get lost first, though; we've got the entire day now."

"Of course, my lord," Thoben gave a craggy grin himself before disembarking with the rest, a small trunk of freshly inked charts in tow.

Gérard all but staggered down to the captain's quarters, able to relax for the first time in days, and proceeded to sack out, sleeping the sleep of the dead for near on ten hours.

Awakening early that evening, groggy and famished, he took the time to clean himself up properly – scrubbed up, fresh clothing, beard trimmed decently – before rowing ashore alone in the ship's remaining longboat, which had been left behind for his use. The prince was dressed rather simply for a royal, as was his preference: just a loose, long-sleeved dark-blue cotton tunic that opened a bit at the neck (revealing his thick, dark chest hair), grey trousers, black leather boots and a broad leather belt. He had no official retinue of any kind with him today, but when one was as eminently recognizable as Gérard Barimen, who needed to be flashy? His legendary feats, fame, and general reputation seemed to precede him everywhere anyone had ever heard of him.

He was celebrated in the streets of Begma that night as he casually strode into the capital 'city' (such as it was: a rude early copy of Amber with strong baronies and a weak king, it would seem to one familiar with the True City.) People pressed him for news of the War – which, sorrily, he had little. Women openly fawned over his size, his strength, and he kindly took their attentions and compliments in the stride without encouraging them further. Even small children were running about him, some boasting that they were going to grow up to be as big and strong as he – a long-standing popular aspiration of many a child he had seen grow up, grow old and die (sometimes not living to grow old), whilst others dared him at this and that, trying to goad him into action; these he had learned from boyhood to ignore, for even in play they were mostly only looking for trouble, and they were finally driven off by the innkeeper of the establishment where he chose to take his evening meal. The prince knew he really needed to get up to the embassy, but he had never thought well on an empty stomach. He had always preferred to let someone else handle the political wheedling when it came to these things; such mental and moral sleight-of-hand was certainly not his forte. But he would nevertheless go fortified – with dinner first.

And a merry one it was at that: Gérard's appetite appeared to be well-known also, for the serving girl brought out not one, but two of the large house plates, the steak on the first of a size he had not seen as one person's portion since he lived in the southern United States, the other loaded with bread, cheese, fresh-grown spring vegetables and candied fruits from last winter, all accompanied by a stein of good-quality Begman beer! The inn was packed with patrons, and a band of rustic country musicians played lively tunes in the corner of the establishment all evening; many present were dancing, making the old floorboards creak. The prince happily ate his fill of what was provided, but took the drinking a little easier (as tempting as it was to just let loose and enjoy himself tonight), politely refusing a refill when his stein was about two-thirds empty; he was going to need his wits for what was coming afterwards, as much as he didn't want to think about that either at the moment.

But he couldn't put it off forever: the proprietor told him that the meal was on the house, but Gérard insisted on paying the man; he had gone to considerable expense to feed him so well. He was just on his way out the door – and was being informally toasted one last time by the other patrons who were staying – when a liveried servant to Frekalin Orkuz, Prime Minister of Begma, arrived on horseback, the man's anxiety clear in his frazzled state!

"My lord prince!" he hailed Gérard, hurrying to dismount. "We did not know you were come ashore – my master only received the news but minutes ago! Had we but been told, my lord could have had a feast fit for a king for free!"

"Peace, my man," Gérard reassured him, "it is all right. I do not mind paying – that's why we come here, after all," he gently jested. "But I _had_ meant to call upon the Prime Minister before we struck out again for home."

A suitably-sized mount was found for the prince, and he accompanied the servant back up into the surrounding foothills in the failing light, along well-worn and wide yet unpaved dirt roads, up to the Prime Minister's mansion. Gérard had only had occasion to be up this way maybe a couple of times over the centuries, remembering two of the current P.M.'s direct predecessors; the position was hereditary in this country. He still had to admit they had quite a view up here, what with the coastline to the east, rolling farmland stretching away to the north and south, and an echo of the Forest of Arden encroaching on the west. Unlike Amber, this land was generously bestowed with numerous lakes and rivers, most of which ran in tributary turn to the sea; he and his companion had to cross the River Diarmuid on a small cobblestone bridge to reach the Orkuz estate from the direction in which they had ridden – which was likely a shortcut for expediency's sake since no carriage had been required. Once there, the prince was received with much formal honor and ceremonial pomp (both of which he dearly wished he could simply wave off, but protocol forbid), as Frekalin Orkuz worked overtime to convey the king's (for all practical intents and purposes, _his_ ) profound thanksgiving at Gérard's coming to Begma, as well as his ingratiating apologies for not seeing to his bodily needs earlier. The man's son was also in attendance, young Dominéo, doing his best to inconspicuously blend into the general retinue. He certainly had his old man's build: on the short side, black-haired, and a little chunky already – but his dark brown eyes sharply noted all that happened or was said, and when refreshment was ordered for both his father and the prince in the state sitting room, it was he who brought the liqueur tray and not a servant, giving the prime minister the chance and excuse to formally introduce him (although Gérard knew who he was already from previous Castle reports.)

Once the prime minister had the prince alone, however, it quickly became apparent that Orkuz's relief at seeing a member of Amber's royal family was not merely due to his anxiety over the War. Gérard was quickly-nigh-frantically informed of a societal foment that had been rising rapidly in Begma in general, and for no apparent reason that Frekalin could possibly divine, especially now that the threat seemed to be past: the sudden and totally unforeseen push for the equality of women in their country! There had been no oppressive changes in how the fair sex was being treated in the public sector: they were still respected and loved as wives and mothers and helpmates at homestead and in the town, but suddenly within the last month or so a suffrage-style movement had literally sprung out of thin air, a push for women in the workplace: paid positions only men had ever held before! They were even lobbying to be allowed to enter the government, and the prime minister was at his wits' end! They were not breaking any laws, merely folk customs; he couldn't imagine using force against them, but what in the worlds was he to _do_ about it?!

And the prince could certainly tell the level of the man's desperation, that he was telling _him_ all of this; Orkuz understood perfectly well that his confidante-at-hand was Gérard, and not Eric or Corwin or even Caine… _there_ was a old thought-pattern, he suddenly realized sadly. But the sentiment was unchanged: Gérard Barimen was nobody's first choice for an adviser unless it was on the high seas, or the battlefield perhaps – and then the queries posed him were always very specifically to do with the task immediately at hand. Of course, what was amusing about it this time was that for once he actually had a fair guess as to what was really going on here, and it was indeed one of the stranger examples of Shadow-in-action that he had heard of in many a moon, outside of the War.

Anything and everything that happened in Amber – in the True World – caused a ripple-effect that reverberated through the innumerable reflected worlds that ultimately hailed from this association with Order. Civil unrest in the True City could precipitate economic catastrophe and outright war in the inaccurate stretchings and twistings of the stuff of existence the further away one traveled from the epicenter. It would seem that Amber's women – having taken up the slack out of necessity from the absence of the vast majority of the male population – had triggered a progressive gender movement _here_ , and the prince told Orkuz as much, as simply and calmly as possible, informing him that – as far as he knew – while the Black Road had been vanquished on their side of the spectrum, the battles could still be raging unabated in Chaos-proper, for he had received no intelligence that would've positively indicated otherwise up till now, and he explained Amber's current state-of-affairs in regard to the gender shift, reassuring him that their remaining populace was as productive as could be expected under the circumstances. Granted, it seemed that a fair number of the women who had taken over their husbands' shops and family businesses in the City had suddenly found their element, excelling in their new occupations – and this being the case, the prince's advice in the matter was to simply ride the circumstance out: it wasn't the end of the world that a woman could make an honest living and real money, just a different world than the one they were accustomed to living in. It was probably in the Begman public's best interest to indulge their women in this… for the time being, anyway; when the War was well and truly over and Amber's male forces were returned home again, they would be able to better see if the trend really lasted or if it had only been a fluke, an echo of the Truth.

It was painfully obvious that Frekalin Orkuz was not in favor of the idea of permitting this – in fact, he appeared to be grinding his teeth slightly as he listened – but he had to concede that what the prince had told him made sense in comparison to any theories he had come up with himself or had heard during the time this had been happening, though he wasn't about to allow any females to assume offices of ministry, either political or religious. Positions of lesser authority perhaps, ones more easily relinquishable…

The interview lasted a solid hour… and by Gérard's estimation, this was overkill by at least forty minutes, for what the man had truly wanted was a slew of intelligence information that the prince either did not know or wouldn't have told him even if he had. For some reason, an annoying number of individuals misinterpreted his general human decency, compassion, and forthrightness as being intellectually _slow_ , and it was almost embarrassing just how often the less scrupulous had tried to very unsubtly take advantage of him over the centuries – and were surprised at the resistance they came up against… mostly. The prince didn't mentally revisit his mistakes if he didn't have to; there had only been a small handful of instances over several centuries, really.

One rather troubling thing that Gérard _had_ to keep talking his way around was just how precisely the Black Road had been so perfectly erased; the Prime Minister of Begma knew it had something to do with the Pattern, but anything more than this was an incredibly confidential state secret for Amber, and not just for reasons of defense. The new knowledge of the Primal Pattern – which, so far, had been limited to the immediate blood family – threw a proverbial monkey-wrench into their entire understanding of the way the multiverse worked. Or, more specifically, that Amber herself was a _shadow_ – a very special one, it would seem, first in an endless parade of logic-based sentience… but still just a shadow, the true Reality a beautiful rarified abstraction just beyond her borders. It changed how they looked at the worlds – at least it had for him, and some of what this shift in perspective portended was very troubling indeed. He was able to grant Orkuz assurance that no matter what happened from here on out that Amber herself would remain strong, even if it took a generation or two to replenish her numbers in the worst-case-scenario, and that Begma still had economic favor, that the Golden Circle was yet extant, at least in political theory…

But the direction the prince's thoughts had been listing to kept on bothering him as he rode back down to town, making for the ship once again. The Barimens were not gods – Unicorn forgive him, they weren't even totally Real! Perhaps a little more solid than most, but…

Once aboard, he saw that many of the crew had already returned – his own return was vigorously hailed – but the prince was somber as he made his way below deck to the captain's quarters. As he expected, Thoben was there at the polished oblong wooden table, working out the expeditions earnings and expenditures by lamplight and studying the new amalgamated map the cartographer had just finished inking for their voyage home.

"Evening, my lord," he glanced up momentarily to hail him. "We did rather well for ourselves: the hold has taken on as much grain and wool as we dare ballast, along with enough provisions for our return… what troubles you, my lord?"

Gérard had said not a word, given no sign, but had simply walked over to the floor-length windows and was staring out into the sea and the Begman night sky, his muscular arms crossed.

"I was just thinking, of an old game my family has played for as long as I can remember: Real and Unreal. Perhaps the differentiation was simpler in our father's day, when Amber was Amber and Other was Other, when we required no contact with Shadow in order to survive. True, things have run well _with_ the contact: we certainly profit from our ventures abroad," he widely gestured about the well-appointed cabin, turning; the captain grinned in satisfaction with a firm nod of approval. But soon stopped; the prince was not smiling. "We have grown far too dependent upon the Shadow-trade… and we rendered the same possible for many of our neighbors: profit and interdependency. The borders of the Golden Circle have expanded far, and beyond these Shadow upon Shadow carries enough reflection of our Highway to trade amongst themselves, and have for centuries, millennia even in some places." Gérard's expression had turned positively dire. "They are _all_ cut off now, just as we were. We are not the only world that has grown dependent upon Begman grain and wool, and we have allowed this to happen. Amber is directly responsible for that. There must be justice at the center of things, otherwise all falls apart everywhere. What right do we have to say that this people over here gets to prosper and that one over there gets to starve and their civilization crumble out from beneath them for no reason other than they _trusted_ us?!"

"By the right of the Unicorn, and being of the True City," Thoben warily responded by rote, wondering at the prince's current state of mind.

The captain was genuinely aghast when Gérard's response was a cold, scoffed laugh that didn't suit him at all.

"A 'True City'? When my father and grandfather pulled all your ancestors out of Shadow to populate and defend it? You've got about as much 'reality' to you as any skilled man in that city yonder," he thumbed toward land, "just a longer lifespan and better health from being born and raised so close to all those Patterns! Amber hasn't been there forever – we built it!"

"Then… by the Unicorn alone," the captain faltered.

For a moment, Gérard almost pitied him: none of his 'countrymen' were even as much as a sparkle in Her eye. "I am of the Unicorn," the prince stated more calmly, "and I say you have worth – _all_ of you, all of this, otherwise why else would it exist at all? We do not create the shadows; we merely _find_ them: this is my conviction now, from what I have seen, and it is becoming very apparent that my brothers and sisters know very little of the True process. But as for me, I will act in accordance with my conscience on this point. It is what I _can_ do, and so I must."

"Oh, my lord," the captain sighed sadly, "you mean to be away from Amber for the rest of my lifetime. While I doubt not the integrity of your intention in this, is there no other way? Is it not true that the Great Dworkin was rediscovered at last, before the Storm? Perhaps another method for the reopening of the paths can be found?"

The purpose in Gérard's sea-blue eyes hardened; if the captain hadn't been sitting he would've taken an automatic step back. "I am going to attempt it _now_ , starting from right here in Begma, with at least one of their larger supply ships to follow, to learn the way." He made for the table then, for the stack of maps.

The captain could scarce believe his ears! "But – my lord!"

"We _must_! Now!" the prince seated himself, pulling a couple of the maps toward him, sliding them across the smooth tabletop, no longer looking at him. "How many weeks have already gone by in the farther reaches of the Golden Circle, months even?! Time himself ages more rapidly in some of those shadows! If we are to save them, we can afford no further delay!"

"…but, my lord," the man mentally stumbled in shock, with the beginnings of irritation, "what of your _country_? And what of our economic endeavor here? You truly intend to place the well-being of shadow-peoples before those of Amber! To say nothing of the perishable cargo we have just purchased by the bushel and the bale: it will be ruined by such a long journey! We'll lose the money!"

Gérard's eyes were blue fire as he turned on the captain.

"This isn't about _money_!" he thundered, the room fairly ringing with his deep voice. "It's about _survival_ , dammit!" At the word, the prince furiously pounded the table so hard with his fist that the blow caused a considerable gash in the hardwood surface, raising huge splinters around the area of impact!

Immediately aware of what he had just rashly done, Gérard closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. It wasn't this old captain's fault that his worldview was so badly skewed. It was _theirs_ …

"With all due respect, my lord," Thoben began again, his own voice forced level, "'twas only by the favor of the Unicorn that we have even made it this far so badly undermanned. I cannot possibly attempt – in _my_ good conscience – to travel so far on such an unsure venture with so few grown men. Those boys have served you valiantly; they have been willing to risk their lives and their sanity to serve you thus. Would you force them to go on, beyond the terms of contract? When much danger and physical and psychological hardship lie charted ahead of us on the course you would take? I have seen many of these waters myself, and I will warn you now – as is _my_ duty – that it is no 'Highway of the Gods'! There are _dragons_ in the waters between Makon and Telúk, for gods' sake! And depending on the time of year, Boralo is prone to hurricanes! Those children have done everything you have asked of them and more, and I say they've been through enough; they have _earned_ the right to return home to Amber! None of them are experienced enough sailors for the voyage you wish to undertake; there is no sentiment in _that_ , my lord. It is the truth."

Gérard sat back in his chair with a sigh. The man was right, of course. And he hadn't deserved to get his table busted up. He opened his eyes and met the captain's more calmly. "I press-gang none into my service… or Amber's. I acknowledge your concerns in this. You have my permission to fill out our crew as you see fit; surely there are experienced sailors to be had in Begma, who know how to weather a rough storm and keep their heads in the face of danger. Many of them are even accustomed to some shadow-travel because of us, albeit usually secondhand. You can guarantee those who will join us that if they stay on for the full journey and come at last to Amber before going back home, that they will be handsomely paid for their labors by the Crown – and that goes for our own who would stay on as well, including you."

"But who is-" The ill-thought-out words escaped the captain's lips; he hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it was too late now: who _was_ the Crown?

Gérard slowly inhaled, his eyes still fixed on him. "Tell them that _I myself_ will pay them, out of the Treasury in Castle Amber, upon our return thence." He glanced back to the table with a sigh. "You can add a woodworker to the tab; if it cannot be mended, I'll replace it."

Thoben snorted a very quiet laugh. "The worlds are not made of as stern of stuff as you are, my Prince," he rose to his feet. "When would you want to be shipping out, then? I can hardly go shopping for a crew at this hour of the night… at least not one that would be sober by morning," he ruefully joked; Gérard nodded assent.

"Tomorrow afternoon, then, with the tide. I should speak to our own crew myself, to give them time to make up their minds on the matter." He was struck with a sudden thought. " _You_ are still with us? Or should I be looking for another captain as well, aboard a Begman vessel?"

One of the traits that made men follow Gérard Barimen to the ends of the earth and beyond was his complete lack of guile: one always knew exactly what he was thinking, exactly how he felt about things, exactly where he stood at all times, no matter what was going on; he even gave fair warning before knowingly blindsiding someone.

The captain sighed a bit irritatedly, but with that old fondness. "Course none of you would make it at all without me. I wouldn't normally doubt your Highness, but you're not really traveling 'with' us, so-to-speak," he gave a half-smile. "I'm still with you, my lord. And for you, for whatever that's worth; I'd rather serve a ruler who cares too much than one who don't care at all."

The prince gave only a curt nod with a small lip-smile before rising himself and tromping on across to the sailors' barracks, which was fairly packed for the night; only a couple were yet topside. Upon his entering the room – already stuffed with occupied hammocks, though few were sleeping yet – many of the crew straightened or rolled up to stand in the prince's presence, but Gérard stopped them.

"At ease, lads," he smiled warmly at the attempt, "I've just come to tell you what is on my mind."

And he _did_ , in considerable detail for once, for he understood that this was asking a lot of them and he wanted his men (such as they were) to comprehend his reasoning for such a stupendous undertaking, along with the hopefully short but technically indefinable timetable of the venture. He reiterated that their service was both valued and appreciated – and that they indeed had every legal right to return to Amber from here should they so desire; he could easily work out an amnesty with the Prime Minister and arrange for them to come back via Begma's regular merchant fleet… provided that they offered any captain they sailed under their services also, and not just their paperwork, until they reached their destination. They _would_ be paid for the work they had already accomplished, regardless of whether they stayed with the Silversheen or left it. But the ship _was_ going onward with or without them, and they had until the morning to decide whether they were also, so that the captain had adequate time to recruit as many hands as he needed from among the local population; that had been Thoben's stipulation, that he would not leave at all without a full ship. Should they stay, the workload would not be as heavy as it had been before, but he still left the decision up to them and bid them goodnight.

Needless to say, consternation and argument reigned supreme onboard the Silversheen long into the wee hours of the morning on the heels of this totally unexpected news, with open debates raging this way and that over most of the points that the prince had discussed! What did this sudden shift in policy portend for Amber's future supremacy? The very thought of risking life and limb for 'lesser' shadowmen was almost more than some could even swallow, the prince's own tack at odds with everything they had ever known or been taught! It turned reality itself on its side!

"Best take the time to caulk her, then," the first mate advised, and his sentiment did not go amiss. Even though Amber influenced all of Shadow, recent events did suggest that shadows still could influence Amber; the monsters of the Black Road had killed men in their army _in_ Amber! To say nothing of alien shadow-men some of the Royal Family had ignobly introduced for ostensibly the same reason! With this being the case, there was a natural enough obverse to this coin: the cultivation of shadow-allies, as had been accomplished for any number of reasons, including economic, in their country's distant past. Wasn't the voyage his highness intended merely an extension of that show of goodwill? Perhaps he ultimately had right on his side; this _was_ Gérard, after all. It was just inconvenient due to circumstances beyond the prince's control, which only raised another slew of potentially dangerous questions, some of which they had never dared to ask anyone aloud before…

By morning, the crew had mostly decided in favor of staying on with only a few holdouts: not only a handful of the boys (that much the captain had anticipated), but also the second mate, and, most shockingly, the pilot, who could barely contain his disgust at the thought of the prince's 'clemency for mere shadows'! He refused to offer his services to even a shadow crew – he was for Amber, not for this dangerous farce, and would charter his own way home rather than perform the same duty on a foreign ship; he could financially afford to be hard-headed. Gérard could scarcely fault the boys, but he was more than a little galled at the other two, to say nothing of their reasoning (as mainstream as that sort of thinking actually was in his home country.) But he had given his word on the matter, and that was that: they were given their gold and their leave. Among those who had chosen to stay on was the boy who'd dove off the ship within sight of home – and the prince wished _he_ had chosen to leave! The kid had been a bundle of nerves for most of the expedition so far, and no doubt felt that he had the chance to prove himself now, but such 'hands' were a liability on any voyage, let alone one so specialized as this, but Gérard didn't have the heart to openly disgrace the lad by announcing he was unfit when he had come this far; perhaps work could be found for him below decks on the second ship they were to contract out. For any merchant daring enough, this was the opportunity of a lifetime: to be there at the opening of a new trade-route, to get to learn the way before any others of his countrymen! The knowledge of the route was to be made common, though; Gérard had insisted on that point, to cut down on the chances of a truly detrimental monopoly developing in any of these shadow-nations they were to link together. The Golden Circle was to be made an _actual_ circle at last.

That day saw even more activity than the prior (or, rather, the prince was actually a conscious participant this time.) The choice of a second ship had resulted in a bidding war on the docks, and in the end the captain of the Silversheen tripled his profits for the venture merely by selling the right to follow his ship to Hendrik Retiver, a man on the make with a sizable frigate at his disposal. The crewing process was even more arduous for _both_ vessels, the prince's requirements were so strict, but by noon the Silversheen had taken on an extra sixty hands including a cabin boy of barely ten years (which Gérard couldn't help but feel had been a personal moral jab at him by his own captain, who still wasn't totally happy about doing this) as well as a new pilot; the man had been very thoroughly briefed as to what his specific duties were to be and how the operation was to run. Shadow-pilotage was similar enough to the regular kind that the man had trained for (and had years of practice in), but there were some significant navigational differences which were usually only ever taught in Amber to sailors of the True City. They were taking a risk in doing this, but it was a rare privilege to be allowed access to this knowledge; the pilot proved to be a swift learner bestowed with an eager and broad mind, and the prince was satisfied with his competency.

The Bright Jenna – the frigate in question – was rigged and ready by seven bells by the day watch; she was to carry most of the cargo for both of the ships, and all hands were on decks, ready to make sail. The prince had made a fast jaunt to the Amberite embassy in the city, leaving behind the documentation papers for those who would be taking the alternate route directly back home from his own crew, along with the necessary legal signatures and monetary compensation to accommodate their passage; then he made for the Silversheen again. He was last to board as before, and he found that it was frankly a relief to see the manpower they now had at their disposal – a proper crew once more – readying their own rigging and preparing to cast off just as soon as the signal was given. If the Amberite men who had served him were fondly deferential, these Begman sailors looked up to Gérard as if he were a demigod in the flesh, giving him generous berth wherever he went about deck, all showing little signs of respect and subservience. It was just as well, the prince reasoned; it meant he had a reliable, quick-responding crew. The order to raise anchor was given and Gérard took his position at the prow, hoping that this attempted act of charity was not his own heart's moment of well-meaning betrayal…

* * *

Meanwhile, back in the True City, Fletcher Rein had his hands full of litigation he could literally do nothing with but stack up in the corner, as well as at least a dozen old nobles who still had their noses out of joint about this arrangement, breathing down his neck! Granted, the general change in the law – that if one was caught breaking it at all by the police, the perpetrator was promptly sent to the dungeons for an indefinite stay – had seemed positively draconian at first, but he had to admit that the standing threat of that level of punishment alone with no trial had all but eradicated petty crime in the City; it was too bad that it had taken a measure that extreme to do it, though. (There was, of course, the rather real possibility that quite a number of the usual troublemakers were battling for their lives at the other side of the multiverse at present, but Rein very consciously chose to ignore this particular data.) The prince's mail and newspapers were piling up, so-to-speak; the assumption that the outside world was simply going to leave them alone because they couldn't even get to them seemed to unfortunately be proving spot-on, but that didn't take into account the goings on at home that the king had always quietly dealt with in the past, with no one else's knowledge. Lord Rein couldn't remember either of the late kings – Oberon or Eric – ever smiling a lot; from the little he could see from his own position, the job was definitely a bitch (as Corwin would have remarked, were he here), especially without access to any of the perks that usually came with this level of power! And Rein didn't envy the prince who would wind up with it nearly as much as he'd thought he would: his own nearly worthless little title was proving to be trial enough!

But barely nine days into Fletcher's 'stewardship', ships with Begman flags were sighted off in the distance, making straight for Amber's port! They were greeted with general pandemonium and rejoicing… but the Silversheen was not among their number. The sailors told strange tales, wonders none had ever seen in their entire lives, and certainly never on the old Highway! Shadow was well and truly open between them once more… but such shadows! While a man on one of the vessels had taken mindsick three days out, the rest appeared to have made the crossing hale and whole – and now that they knew what this was going to be like from now on, they could better prepare their own people for its effects in the future! The raw wool, grain and other foodstuffs were like a gift from heaven, and fetched good price at market (which had grown nearly threadbare aside of the fishmongers.) It was generally assumed that the prince's vessel would be following in a day or two from what the captains had overheard – that the Amberites had stopped to rest and resupply before returning home. All was indeed well, then, and they would have their ruler back soon enough.

But days passed and there was still no sign of the Silversheen, just more Begman merchants, their cargo far more telling this time, for those who had defected from the prince's second voyage were onboard! The boys were fairly bursting at the seams with their stories upon being reunited with their families, although by the sounds of it more than one of them had decided that their futures lay in the local waters as simple fishermen or on land as other types of tradesmen. Unlike the poor Begman they heard tell of, none of the Amberites had lost their senses in the crossing, but that journey was still a little too traumatic for some to care to voluntarily repeat for a living!

With the little clout that he had, Lord Rein urged the populace to calmly continue their daily lives for the time being: there was nothing that any of them could do to bring back their lord or their loved ones any faster, except perhaps to pray that they would be returned to them before the turn in the season. He knew not how time pulled out in the shadow-worlds that Gérard and his crew ( _two_ of them, powers preserve them!) were traversing at this moment, but he felt in his gut that the prince would not have embarked upon this second voyage had he truly believed that too much time would pass at home in the interim.

He hoped…

* * *

Speaking courageously, vowing to hold fast and true in the face of all adversity (by Amberite standards, that is) and actually _doing_ it were two very different things, as the seasoned Begman sailors in Gérard's small fleet were quickly discovering. The prince had simply seen the symptoms too many times to really be affected by it anymore, but the fact remained that they had already lost two of the Silversheen's new crew to the old madness, the unfortunate yet surprisingly common affliction of lesser mortals upon exposure to a reality far greater than their ability to psychologically handle. They were rapidly transferred to the Jenna's hold and bound securely among the bales of wool to keep them from hurting themselves or others, two of the frigate's sailors taking their place aboard the Silversheen. Gérard knew he had heard Corwin recently speak in passing of a type of mind doctor to be found on Shadow Earth, who had the ability to make those of weaker will forget painful or otherwise unwanted and personally detrimental memories. He would have to look into it upon his return home; such a thing might be useful in such simple, straightforward cases like these.

The madness had not occurred without serious provocation, however: some of the 'shadow-walking' conditions of this sail were proving to be particularly wild, the effects impossible to completely cover over even with temporary weather inversions or even outright fog, no hiding from those onboard that they were indeed plowing the waters between the worlds: different atmospheres, different smells to the sea, signs in the heavens that abruptly appeared and disappeared seemingly at will, testing and trying the psyches of his crew. There had been a reason these courses had never been attempted for permanence before. The prince, the captain, and the pilot of the Silversheen had been having planning sessions that lasted long into the night, charting out each next day's passage, carefully weighing dangers of sea and sky against the psychological well-being of the men… with the cabin boy often an unwitting, hidden witness to their dire councils. This was one of the most serious undertakings of Gérard's life, moreso than even the War: he had to come through this with _all_ the men entrusted to him; he had to be willing to hobble the speed of their journey to care for them, in spite of that very speed being a great bodily necessity to all involved.

Onward, ever onward through those trackless alien oceans, graced by foreign stars, completely alone except for the occasional pods of fish and other sea creatures. One night the crew of the Jenna thought that the outside of the hull of the ship had caught fire from the amount of light out-of-doors… only to discover an entire migration of bioluminescent _jellyfish_ , as far as the eye could see in all directions, flashing and shimmering in sequence like a sea full of living lanterns…

As the captain of the Silversheen had predicted, they sighted their first sea-dragon within hours of entering the Sea of Makon, but they were in luck: the beast was only fishing, and so let them be. Seeing that they were in no danger, the crew of the Jenna lowered nets and caught a goodly number also, preserving them in salt, to add to the table (such as it was, with so many mouths to feed.)

But, unfortunately, Captain Thoben had also been right about the weather not being as predictable out here, either. They passed through small batches of moisture regularly – petty, inconsequential cloudbursts, just enough to get the men wet, cold, and irritable. But they had to ride out a fairly significant squall on the fourth night out: black clouds crowding out the stars and planets, with volleys of rain pounding the decks and sails, hard enough to make the masts and rigging creak, the roiling waters beneath the ships churning into a liquid mountain range as sheets of lightning roared across the heavens! As much canvas as possible was stowed, but the Silversheen had already lost her foremast topsail to a gigantic rip from top to bottom before the crew even had time to furl it, and it had to be lowered altogether in the blinding rain to keep it from pulling the ship off-course! The prince had ordered the boys to go below deck immediately for their own safety in spite of their vehement vocal protests to the contrary: the kind of storm that could easily take a man's life was no place for children to be playing at heroics! The Silversheen was getting doused with each oncoming white-foamed wave, riding the deeply echoing valleys of the troughs, the heights of the breakers; the more heavily-canvassed frigate sustained more damage from the wind and was beginning to list to leeward, but managed to keep apace the lead vessel in spite of all, having to use the pumps below deck to keep from taking on too much water! For two whole hours the elements raged at them – a sudden flash of close lightning illuminated a lost plesiosaur in a huge raised wall of water two points off the starboard beam, submerged, rowing against the current in vain!

But, gradually, the wind began to tire of blowing itself out, and at last there was a near-calm in another hour as the clouds dissipated and stars reappeared, along with two new brightly-colored planets. Everything and everyone that had been above decks was sopping wet, the weight of the water pulling down on sails, clothes, and spirits alike. But they had made it, and without losing a single man – a small victory in and of itself! Repairs were seen to, fresh canvas hoisted aloft, the two bound men in the hold of the frigate soothed out of their terrified screaming with songs and stories out of their childhood, with promises of home and family. Once the wind was in their favor again, it was quickly discovered that they had been blown all the way out to the deep and immense coral forest of Simaja, crossing the shadow-barrier into Laerna through a naturally occurring 'wormhole', without even meaning to! It took some work to get back out into the correct course – and _time_ , time they could not afford to spare, for it ebbed and flowed like the tide in some of these desert regions…

But those heavens at night, every night that it was clear – and sometimes even in broad daylight… Were the circumstances any less serious, this alone would've been worth the price of admission: the displays were awe-inspiring, almost painfully beautiful, and sometimes more than a little disquieting. The cartographer (who had stayed with the Silversheen) had made up a sort of contest for the joint crews, to help with the naming of this seemingly endless parade of celestial phenomena, that whoever's idea or story was best for it would be the official one used in the records – in Amber, no less! The prince approved of the old man's harmless scheme: it helped to keep the men's minds from wandering off into dangerous, self-injurious directions in the few hours that they weren't distracted by their work.

As to the true purpose of all this toil and travail across the great wide watery wastes of Shadow, at least _that_ part was basically going according to plan, between catastrophes. The Silversheen and the Bright Jenna and their crews were lauded at every port-of-call as heroes, like something out of an old legend come to life: the gods coming in time of famine to give not only bread, but new freedom of the seas about each shadow-country they visited (and the Begmans were making a rather healthy profit, but not an unreasonable one, even trading for less-perishable local-made items they could market elsewhere along the route as well as in Amber and at home!) They were mobbed by enthusiastic crowds onshore, celebrated every night they made land.

Well… almost every time: the farthest reaches of the Begman grain trade had reached tentative fingers all the way out to Deiga via the old route through Amber, furthest port-of-call with permanent ties to True City, with a gorgeous semi-tropical climate near the shore, but the soil too alkaline for much sustenance agriculture further in. The place was awash in coffee and spice plantations spread out all along the long, thin strip of the coast: reliable cash crops. They kept Castle Amber supplied in tobacco also; when one could regenerate lung and other bodily tissues faster than serious damage or cancer could occur, smoking was simply not a problem as far as the Royal Family was concerned. That and tourism were the main staples of Deigan economy, especially since they had been able to buy or barter for what they could not easily grow or make themselves for generations. Inland, there were a few small copper mines hidden away in the rocky deserts; a fair amount of house wares and highly stylized jewelry came to the worlds from their artisans.

But modern Deigan society had been able to develop – and the population to grow – because they were not limited to their own country's resources. Nearly all of their food was imported through the shadow-trade now. Or… had been, before the Storm. Deiga was the Silversheen's last scheduled stop before wheeling on home the long way, and the prospect of their being last had caused the prince a certain degree of worry along the way, due to their high level of dependency, how far they were situated away in comparison to the others. His supply ships simply couldn't be everywhere at once… or perhaps, in truth, they _could_ , but he and his siblings had never gotten down the knack of getting along with their close shadow-copies well enough to get them to do what one wanted; it was too incredulous a strain on reality for their minds to handle, and there was no guarantee that their powers would follow also. At any rate, some logical order of priority had had to be established if this was going to be a viable trade route for anyone, and it had made more sense from the perspective of safety to link nearby shadow-peoples with their immediate neighbors. All of them had had to travel to Amber before to do business with each other, and she had always profited greatly from being the necessary hub that tied all the spokes together.

The climate had grown markedly hotter upon drawing nigh to their final destination; the sun felt a hair closer, but the sea was so clear in the shadows of the approach that it gave the impression of sailing straight over the contents of an enormous lighted aquarium, with as many fish as could be seen, and as far down! Small, brightly-colored tropical species darted and swam in schools nearer the surface, while huge rays undulatingly glided about in the dim below. A brief rain was a welcome relief from the scorching afternoon, even if the weather had occluded their vision of the sea ahead of them for a short time.

It was only when it cleared away that something small was spotted on the horizon, coming from the generally southwestern direction they were sailing in. Another ship? It seemed impossible; that would indicate a bleeding of Shadow somewhere in this vicinity, an occurrence that should've been wholly rectified by the healing of the Pattern! And yet, there the vessel rode…

Captain Thoben looked out through his telescope: yes, definitely a triangular-sailed xebec of the kind commonly found in Deiga and its surrounding shadows! Had they been attempting the crossing to Amber unaided with the way closed, then? If this was so, the prince's fleet would certainly receive a warm welcome once they caught up with them, and official escort back to the coast of their people, there to teach them the bearings of the new track.

But upon the approach of the xebec by late afternoon, the now unmistakably Deigan vessel and her crew were obviously of less than friendly intent: there could now be discerned furious flights of activity on deck, accompanied by shouted orders… and were those the gun ports that had just been opened?

"Duck!" was all the bo'sun had time to scream before the first volley pounded into the starboard side of the Silversheen with a resounding boom that startled Gérard instantly alert! The smell of gunpowder was all the information he needed…but why in the worlds?! The chemical compounds that make up what is recognizable upon Shadow Earth as gunpowder are not incendiary upon Amber or her nearby shadows, and for this reason the fleets of the Golden Circle have always been welcome to have it aboard their ships for it is usually never a threat (or even a safety hazard) unless one enters the outermost frontiers of the Circle and the waters of Shadow beyond…

The xebec was coming up on them fast, with the clear intent to broadside the smaller brigantine!

"My lord!" Arnas Karvel, the captain of the Jenna shouted across to the prince via amplifier, "Should I take the other side? We can easily sink this upstart between us!"

"No!" Gérard shot back over his own amplifier. "Stay course and fall back!" It seemed that Karvel had temporarily forgotten the twin air currents: he could be blown off course backwards if he veered a mere few yards to starboard! And there was something that felt terribly _off_ about this unprovoked attack; the prince never dealt blows to a stranger without at least a reason! He dashed to the starboard side.

"Hold fire!" he trumpeted to the Deigan vessel. "You are attacking an ally!"

This was met with a collection of hurled insults and curses – and a second round of explosions at much closer range that took out part of the railing and the side of the ship, one cannonball flying across deck, missing the bole of the foremast by inches! The crew of the Silversheen were obviously preparing their own vessel's guns below deck, awaiting the order to fire; the xebec rather obviously had the greater firepower, but the frigate could level her in minutes once the wind carried her broadside! And yet the whole thing felt all wrong, like a dire misunderstanding, but the prince's adrenaline was pumping now, overriding his cooler reasoning with indignant knee-jerk fury!

"I said _**hold**_ , you _morons_!" he roared across at them. "Move another muscle and be buried in the deep!"

…the change was immediate, breathtaking…

All was silent and still on the xebec – _too_ silent.

As the smoke began to slowly clear, the crews of the Silversheen and the Jenna were met with a sight that made many doubt their senses: the crew aboard the Deigan vessel was frozen in place to the last man, as if they had been spontaneously encased in ice… only they were all just standing as they had been moments before! It was a near-macabre human menagerie of various facial expressions and attitudes of body! The collective response to this was a mixture of awe and muted horror as both vessels were borne past the disabled xebec; none would utter a single word – words felt both insufficient as well as crassly out-of-place in the face of such a supernatural catastrophe, even for one that had ostensibly favored them!

As for Gérard, he was nearly as stunned as his men at first, genuinely shocked that he had unintentionally managed to effect that!

… _no, it_ _was_ _intentional_ , he finally realized. What it _hadn't_ been was a conscious choice: in his momentary burst of rage, he had accidentally slipped a bit back into his meditative level of concentration… and his subconscious intention had an immediate effect on the world! He wondered…

Ordering the frigate to pass the Silversheen on the port-side and to continue on ahead of them for a time in case of other trouble (allegedly), the prince leisurely made his way to the stern of his own ship; none of the men would so much as look him in the eye, but the subservience was still there. They continued to make sail in silence.

Upon hearing the complete lack of any human sound from above decks, the cabin boy had ventured out to see what had befallen the ship's obvious adversary, only to be met with the stares of wide-eyed men, who would only gesture toward the prince. He could not even fathom what had happened, but fairly guessed that it had been some unexpected occurrence of a magical nature. Curious, he jogged up to the stern of the ship to see for himself. The xebec could still be plainly made out in the distance, its inhabitants still unmoving; it resembled a toy on the water with the men held rigid like that! He looked up at the prince, who was still watching it also; his was the only calm countenance on deck.

"My lord, what happened to…"

But Gérard held up a hand to stall his question, then pointed back to the Deigan ship as if he meant for him to see something. Taking a deep breath, the prince closed his eyes, and extended his mind outward, his will reaching, reaching… He very deliberately exhaled, relaxing as much of his frame as he could without slumping to the deck where he stood… and their ears were suddenly greeted with receding shouts of confusion, consternation, and more than a few indistinct curses from the xebec, right before the vessel abruptly vanished! He opened his eyes again, breathing a genuine sigh of relief.

"Those men… they're all right, then?"

Gérard glanced down at the kid and surrendered an amused little smile.

"I believe so, lad, although by rights they shouldn't be for attacking a Prince of Amber in cold blood. But I spared their lives undeserved, yes."

"But really, they're not that far from us! Couldn't they just turn and follow still?"

"Aye, but they don't realize that they _can_!" the big man laughed heartily. "They believe a demon wind fills our sails, that we could even pass them thus! By the time they reach Cibola along the new track and figure it out, we will be worlds away from here, on our way back to Amber."

"But I still don't understand why they attacked us! That was no corsair – I recognized the flag! Deiga is still Amber's friend, aren't they?"

It wasn't an easy question to answer, but Gérard had a sinking feeling that he _knew_. He gently laid a hand on the boy's small shoulders with a sad sigh.

"I think they must believe that the House of Amber had betrayed them and their families, as if we had closed the way against them on purpose. That we had abandoned them to die."

The boy looked down at the railing in front of him, swallowing hard. "You don't think that… they…"

"We'll be there by sunset," Gérard reassured him, not knowing the answer himself. Then frowningly smiled at him, bending down slightly to look him in the eye. "Shouldn't you be going to see if the carpenter needs any help?"

The boy was suddenly at attention, his eyes wide. "Aye, m'lord!" he darted out of his grasp, making for the lower deck again.

Gérard smiled after him for a moment with quiet laughter, seeing that the rest of the crew seemed to have finally relaxed out of that terrible tension as well. The prince thought then of those shadow-people whose lives they had been righting by doing this, of those innumerable echoes upon echoes of shadow-children… and found himself satisfied with this sacrifice of time and effort. They were worth it; _this_ was worth it. He had made the right decision.

Perhaps unsurprisingly there was a continuation of hostility when the ships entered Deigan waters and made for land. The prince gave orders for both the Silversheen and the Bright Jenna to strike their colors, hoisting white flags of truce as they entered the harbor, which calmed things down in a hurry: such an action aboard an Amberite vessel was absolutely unheard of! The presence of the Begman supply ship did slightly more to smooth over the general public's bitterness over what had happened to their country, seemingly at the royal family of Amber's hands, for who else could have cut them off from the world like that? It had been nearly four months since the Storm had passed through out here: from that time to this very day, no aid had come to them, even if the evil spirits had abruptly quit the land. Indeed, some of the people had died of starvation here while they waited, helpless, for anyone to come, for they had proven incapable of leaving their own waters at all! It was only within the last few days that one of their holy women had sensed a change in the fabric of the world – Gérard's approach! – and a ship had successfully slipped past the first boundary!

The prince had to confess to the king of that land just precisely what had befallen those men on the exploratory vessel and why, before he heard a far more unsavory version of the tale later on, but the monarch seemed satisfied that Gérard had refused to fire on them – even if it had necessitated the use of a little white voodoo, as he thought of it – and agreed to not only remain in the Golden Circle, but generously offered to pay for the damages sustained by the Silversheen (which, thankfully for her crew, had all been above the waterline!) The man's subjects were a bit less inclined to be forgiving, and it took a considerable purchase of coffee beans and spices by the Crown to somewhat assuage the bad feelings, coupled with official public vows that this type of stranding would _never_ happen again under _any_ circumstances.

And so it was that the Silversheen struck out for home at last, laden with exotic goods and fineries instead of necessities – but hopefully those had already made it to Amber ages ago (and Captain Thoben was still getting his cut of the sales percentage, regardless of what his cargo consisted of.) It was determined that rather than cutting a swift-yet-temporary passage with Gw'thronadr that a facsimile of the old road that connected Deiga directly to Amber should be reinstated in the manner of the one to/from Begma, to both further cement the future goodwill between the two countries and to effectively close the new Circle. Gérard followed the old path as closely as he was able in similarity, not wishing to completely lose Benedict's work in the heavens, even if the act would only turn out to be a memorial in the old prince's honor.

Benedict's stories were always divided into two parts, you see: one half for the journey out to their destination, the other for the return trip home. In the tale apportioned to Deiga, the original continuant ran as follows: not only did the cloak of herbs heal the serving girl's master of his sorrow, but, to her great surprise, also his _age_ (for great misery can cheat a mortal man of his years long before his time.) He was young once more, and, seeing that she did not shun him, he not only openly professed thanksgiving but great love for her who had cared for him in his unnatural infirmity, not knowing who he truly was – no less than a duke by birth in his own country! But with his youth also came fresh strength of limb, and with that a renewed desire to bring justice down upon the one who had ultimately caused his nigh-deadly sorrow in the first place: his uncle (who, though not wholly evil – as no mortal human can be, no matter how terrible they may outwardly seem – was nevertheless capable of immense and thoughtless greed.) It was he who had convinced his well-to-do nephew to go questing abroad far from home in a foreign land, for he had greatly coveted the young man's holdings, lucrative farms and fertile fields. But if this were not bad enough, his wicked uncle had made a clandestine pact with a band of shadow-creatures… which the young man only discovered in part when he was unprovokedly attacked by them one night, the resultant terror of an order that the human mind often blots from memory out of necessity. But it was imperative that he remember rightly _now_ , for he was certain that his unknown enemies held the key to his uncle's public downfall and disgrace. For this he needed an elixir not to be found in his garden in the alien land; in fact it could only be found in _one_ special place, and then only with a maiden's assistance, for it required coaxing a unicorn into touching the surface of a bowl of spring water with its horn. The long yarn continued on, but the last of the constellations represented in it had echoes in quite a number of shadows – what on Shadow Earth constitutes the star grouping called Monoceros, the Unicorn. Many of the return stories included features of Amber's own heavens, for _they_ could not be changed to suit fancy. (Unbeknownst to any present but the prince, this lastly mentioned aspect to the story was also practically useful information, but it had only been discovered in recent years and by none other than Corwin, although Random was the one who had guessed the truth, the myth just thinly veiling a specific use of those resultant ripples, the Pattern.)

However, certain prominent celestial configurations from Benedict's beautiful (and moral) telling in the stars were being visually warped in the re-imprinting of the shadow-path, with quite a few of the constellations, star clusters, and other phenomena so stretched or otherwise altered that the old shapes could no longer be made out. The Begman sailors onboard the Silversheen began extemporaneously composing a humorous and somewhat surrealistic alternative plotline, one which Gérard heard the better snippets of over supper each evening when he rested from his own mental labors; he doubted this crazy new tale would have met with Benedict's approval, but neither was the eldest prince present to object to _anything_ at the moment. Admittedly, it _was_ rather memorable, which still suited the purpose at hand. In this version, the young duke had been betrayed alas not by his uncle, but by his _donkey_ , and while he was searching in vain for the Holy Turnip, his company of weasels was set upon by a vicious gang of shrimp with huge hare-like feet! And the yarn kept on getting stranger and more twisted and utterly ridiculous every night until by the end of it his true love (who had somehow grown dragon's wings – and teeth!) had to simply fly out of the way as the Unicorn (no question of which one now) bore down on the hapless hero's rear-end: the 'bowl' constellation had not only inverted, but doubled like a mirror! The prince gave an involuntary snigger when he was first told the ending – but then sternly ordered them not to repeat the last part to anyone ashore, and certainly never to a Unicornian priest: the rough joke was well-nigh blasphemous! But 'Monoceros' was almost in sight in truth, rising above the horizon…

It hadn't been cold enough consistently enough that ice accumulation on the rigging and canvas had become a weight danger to the ships, but big flakes of snow were definitely falling again the day Gérard's small fleet sighted the coast of Amber due north; they also were sighted and well-marked, for by the time they were on the approach to the harbor it seemed that the entire shoreline was crowded with cheering onlookers from both the City and the surrounding countryside – a truly stirring sight for the men! For Gérard, it simply signaled that he was home, that he had accomplished what he had set out to do. The strangers aboard the Silversheen were as celebrated as the few native Amberites still aboard her, an experience it was doubtful that any of them would forget (well… except for those two in the hold of the Jenna, who would be blessedly made to forget the entire voyage before they were allowed to go home, and, eventually, the first man from the other Begman trading vessel as well once Gérard heard of him.)

Many were waiting on the docks for the prince from among the Castle staff and soldiers, as well as a fair number of the aristocracy. And Lord Rein: if he hadn't been so relieved at Gérard's return (and the prince been a lesser man than he was), he might've given into the urge to throttle him right then and there in public for having stuck him with this utterly impossible position!

Instead, the first words out of his mouth as he rushed up to him were, "You've been missing for over six ngan without so much as a messenger pigeon to let me know what in the worlds is going on! I appreciate your munificence as much as any man would, but I would like to formally announce right here and now to Amber at large that as of this moment I wash my hands of my 'stewardship' – I _quit_!"

But instead of being angry at the outburst, the big man nearly doubled over in laughter!

"It is good to see you also, Rein," he warmly clasped the man to himself briefly. "I am sorry to hear your lack of power was such a burden to you, but I give you my word that I will never be absent like this again as long as I am needed here in Amber. I am returned to stay."

As they rode back to the Castle together, their way lined with enthusiastic citizens of every walk of life – still mostly women – Gérard ruefully reflected that there was no doubt quite a lot of work awaiting his attention there, but a mound of paperwork would seem simplicity itself now. The hard work was over.

…he was wrong, of course – it was only just beginning – but as much as one might rue it at times, such lack of foreknowledge is one of the stranger blessings of mankind, mortal and immortal alike, to only know one's trials when it is time for them to set anchor in the harbor…

* * *

_Alright, go listen to 'The Cold Black Key' by Azam Ali. Because I said so ;)_


	3. The Winter of our Discontent

Chapter 3 – The Winter of Our Discontent

It had been a difficult cold season. The _ngan_ of Maga of the Amberite year 2390.7 d'L, while no icier than usual, was marked by the first real privation that the citizens of the True City had weathered since the days of Dworkin Overlord and the Great Settlement, before the opening of the trade-routes across the shadowy seas. Prince Gérard _did_ absent himself from Amber secretly just once more for a little over three days, riding north alone with what was now a familiar level of head-splitting concentration as he forced open a short land route to a dairy village called Murn that he practically willed into existence. There was enough gold in his purse to convince the local farmers he talked to there that it was definitely in their best interests to try the new strange road that led south to a kingdom none had so much as heard whisper of before, the size and culture of which was simply staggering to such a simple, provincial people! Even with a completed list of guaranteed shelf staples for Amberite larders, their 'out-of-season' vegetables and fruit were completely cut off because they had been imported from a few semi-tropical shadowlands that had _not_ been accessed in the stark recutting of the Golden Circle, the worlds having been deemed by that hasty council of prince, captain and pilot as not in need from any of the others _and_ non-essential to any. Their ancestors had survived on what roots and dried fruit they put by for the bitter Amberite winter; so could _they_. The situation simply couldn't be helped, until…

Gérard did a few more reps on the plate-loaded machine before moving on to the bench press. The gymnasium in Castle Amber had originally been conceived of as chiefly a fencing room, but Rilga's strongest son had left quite a mark here, importing weight training equipment from out of Shadow (most of the newer pieces were purchased from Earth and its immediate sisters), helping to haul the heaviest components up the three flights of stairs himself, assisting and directing the assembly of certain pieces where necessary. While the thought might've been tempting to think to look at him, even near-immortals didn't achieve a physique like the prince's without regular effort. His morning regimen was also an excellent way to blow off steam without accidentally causing damage to anyone or anything. Goodness knows he'd had to deal with far more aggravation than usual over the past season…

The trouble had all begun within days of his return to Amber from his long sojourn at sea, late one evening after the public audiences had been concluded for the day. In fact, he had just finished his dinner, which he was accustomed to taking with the Lady Vialle in one of the smaller sitting rooms (Lord Rein being less willing to spend much time with the prince anymore for fear of assuming yet another unwanted position of authority), and was just on his way up to the king's old chambers to dig through documents pertaining to the realm's neo-medieval trade guilds (some of whom weren't very happy with him for how he had simplified the rerouting of the Golden Circle) when a young female servant caught him on the stairs and informed him that he had a 'visitor' waiting to meet with him in the lower drawing room, and that the old man would not be put off. Gérard heaved a great sigh and told the servant to keep the soldiers from forcibly evicting the stranger from the premises (for they had been on the verge of doing so, only awaiting the prince's permission), saying that he would be there directly in a few minutes, but to have them keep an eye on the troublemaker until then.

_How did Father ever manage to find time for all those secret affairs and liaisons?_ he briefly wondered, running a quick comb through his hair (the level of outward decorum he was expected to keep up in both habit and mode-of-dress was already wearing on his nerves), taking a swallow of wine and heading back down to the guest waiting rooms adjacent to the Yellow Room that his sister Flora had designated, designed and decorated during Eric's brief reign; admittedly the chambers _did_ come in handy. Upon his entrance, the ancient-looking, richly-robed sage who had been sitting on one of the modern couches rose slowly to his feet out of respect; the door closed from the outside.

"I will let you know that I am only allowing you audience at this time of night on account of your age since you are already here," the prince addressed the stranger frankly, seating himself on the couch opposite; the grey-haired, elderly man remained standing. If he was a native to Amber (and his demeanor and clothing would suggest this), he might've been almost as old as the late Oberon himself, merely wearing his millennia for the worse due to his 'untainted' shadow-blood. His faded grey eyes were bright, clear, and _very_ sharp, however.

"And I appreciate both the imposition and the opportunity, my lord prince," the man swept a low courtly bow – then retrieved a scroll from one of his billowing Arden-green sleeves, holding it out for him; the document carried the king's own seal, stamped in gold wax with the head of the Unicorn! Gérard's eyes involuntarily widened at the sight of it and took it, breaking the seal to open what was likely one of the last documents the old king had ever written… and was further astounded to discover that it was a letter of introduction!

"He felt that it might be necessary, given the continued secrecy of my position," the old stranger added offhandedly. "I understand that that piece of parchment may hold a little sentimental value for you now, but I was urged to tell you to throw it on the fire after you have finished reading it, so that I may _remain_ a secret."

The prince could scarcely believe what he was reading: this quiet, unassuming well-to-do man from the merchant classes before him was the Minister of Shadow-trade to the realm! And he came highly recommended – and trusted!

_Emrys Mansel has been one of my most important advisors since before Castle Amber herself was completed_ , the missive admitted, _and so long as he lives he must be considered as integral to the realm as the very stones of the walls that currently surround you. Heed his council well, and it shall be well for Amber. Tell no one of his identity, nor of the post's existence, for there are many who would covet his power should the possibility of it be made generally known. I go now to do what I must to repair the Pattern and the worlds. Know that I would not leave you thus alone without access to the wisdom necessary for your own task, though I could not tell you beforehand for you would have had far too many questions and there was neither privacy nor time, which even now I feel burning my very skin as I write you these lines. I have never expected much of you but your loyalty and service; unlike your brothers, you have never once let me down in this regard, and so the regency is yours for so long as it lasts, for in truth some of my own plans have gone awry, and he for whom throne, queen and heir were all provided will no longer accept the crown. The succession is up to your Grandmother the Unicorn now. You have my blessing, both upon your life and your endeavors. Continue to make me proud, my son, so that the name of Barimen will continue to be praised in Amber and in Shadow to come._

And it was signed in a hurriedly sloppy flourish:

_~ Oberon, King of the Healed Pattern_

_(your loving Father)_

In spite of the company Gérard got a bit misty at the end, but he shoved his feelings down hard; without a word he quickly folded the parchment at the line where the confidential-seeming information ended, tore it cleanly in half, and, rising, set the top portion of the missive alight from one of the large candles affixed to the wall, letting it crumple and blacken upon a clear section of the marble floor before stamping it out the ashes with his boot, the acrid smell of the smoke pervading the room.

"Satisfactory?" the prince asked, folding and pocketing the remainder of the letter before seating himself again, gesturing for Mansel to sit also; the offer was politely refused again with a curt headshake.

"All of Amber shares in your grief, my lord," Mansel commented with a note of pity. "I would have come forward sooner, but I was forbidden by his late majesty until such time as my services were actually warranted. Would that I had broken troth at the last and approached you sooner," he sighed, pacing a couple steps away. "I had held no objections to your accessing Begma alone, but had I known the rest… ah well, you did what you had to, and we are likely alive due to your well-meaning efforts. But your chosen course of action now necessitates my own."

"What is it exactly that you _do_?" Gérard put to the man guardedly yet bluntly.

The shadow-minister smiled upon hearing the honest question, turning back.

"You would hardly remember me, but I met you once as a boy, my lord prince; it does my heart good to see that you have not changed much in certain ways. Well," he seated himself across from him at last. "Allow me to start by asking _you_ a question. Have you even wondered why an apple in Amber costs a fifth of an obol?"

Gérard frowned slightly. "No. That is what it is worth."

"Why?"

"The cost of employing the farm-hands to care for the trees in the growing season. The cost of paying the extra laborers in harvesttime. The cost of the feed for the draft animals and maintenance for the carts to carry the fruit to market."

"Those things _do_ have value," Mansel nodded patiently, "but you have not yet answered my question," he gave the prince a little knowing smile, his grey eyes glittering.

Gérard was _not_ smiling. "I like not where your thoughts seem to lead."

"Peace, my lord prince; I was merely curious as to whether the incongruity had ever occurred to you. It is well that the current state-of-affairs in the True City should seem so natural to one of even your own rank," he sat back comfortably in the well-cushioned couch. "The truth of the matter still feels a little like a long-standing joke to me, one of Dworkin Overlord's finest illusions: that certain metals are perceived to have such immense intrinsic value. The true reason that an apple has the price, the _worth_ , that it has – or indeed any other commodity in the True City – is because your grandsire determined it to be so when he first brought the idea of coinage to Amber from out of Shadow. Of all of your siblings only his highness Prince Benedict might remember a time in his early childhood when our country still ran on a purely trade-and-barter economy, dealing in raw goods randomly from distant Shadows. Some of Dworkin's first minted drachms were put into the young prince's hands to spend as he would in the fledgling market on treats and small toys, to show that the system was trustworthy, and that the Crown would support it."

"Even without a background in complex economic theory, you must appreciate that there must always be a high level of fiscal stability in Amber, my lord prince, both for her own sake as well as for the sake of the Shadow that emanates therefrom. For us that has always meant a certain modicum of exerted control when it comes to everything from what goods at market 'cost' both here and abroad, to which shadows are allowed to benefit from transacting with us and for which goods. If the situation was allowed to follow a freer course, our society would experience far greater monetary fluctuations, both good and bad. You are more familiar with the sea and its attendant phenomena, I believe: think of me as a 'breakwater' of sorts, my chief function to ensure that no truly calamitous 'waves' ever reach the shores of the True World. _Without_ that barrier…" he allowed the thought to hang a moment for emphasis before continuing on.

"To come to the point, my lord, we have not experienced an economic flux like the one you have unknowingly induced recently since almost the beginnings of the Golden Circle itself. Before, each new addition to the route was carefully planned out so that we could prepare the markets for them, quietly making subtle adjustments to the values of commodities far off in Shadow so that by the time the newcomers dealt with us their native pricing was already nearly par with our own; from there it was a simple enough business to convince them that we were right by dint of cultural and evolutionary superiority, and to get them to accept our minted metals and finished goods in exchange for things we genuinely needed."

"I argued in vain for many long centuries with Dworkin Overlord's son about cultivating more of his own land against the precise conditions we are now experiencing, but neither he nor his father could bear to despoil so much as an acre of the Arden, of the Valley of Garnath, fearing that it would lead to deforestation further out in Shadow, 'walking' to find even the deadwood to burn in their fireplaces at first. You have finally set this matter to rights; better late than never in matters of our own self-sufficiency, and for this I must salute you. But in taking Amber out of the position of the hub into which all the spokes of Shadow had to flow in order to trade with both us and each other, putting us on equal footing with two of our neighbors while allowing a handful of the others to trade freely without us instead, you have severely hampered our economy by removing the overhead which the Crown has always benefited from by being the mediator of this very trade, to say nothing of the resale markup our own merchant fleet captures when we redistribute certain goods elsewhere in Shadow! There will barely be enough funds coming in to keep the palace functional without indenturing the servants and raising taxes to historic amounts if we do not act soon to correct this! And that does not even begin to consider the predicament that some of your craftworkers are currently in, with most of their traditional markets not only inaccessible directly, but receiving stiff competition from out in Shadow where the values are not being upheld as they are here, without our presence to regulate them! Many may be facing personal ruin before the coming spring!"

"Then we must help them!" the prince sat forward, honest concern clear in his blue eyes, his expression. "But _how_?"

Emrys Mansel calmly produced another scroll from a long front pocket in his robes, along with a capped fountain pen, passing both to Gérard.

"I took the liberty of drawing this up myself in order to save time; we have not a moment to waste," the shadow-minister uttered direly. "All you must do is sign it, my lord prince, and enough of the damage should be adequately defrayed for the time being. Life will continue on almost normally for both your house and your subjects until further notice."

If there was one thing Gérard had learned very well during the long centuries of dealing with his family, it was to always, _always_ read the tiny print; he was struggling through a veritable bramble-thicket of it right now, almost having to squint for it to be legible. The shadow-minister's penmanship was remarkably clean for the 'font size', likely from millennia of practice if the man was as old as he claimed to be, but the specific style of lettering was almost too strongly reminiscent of Oberon's own hand, which the prince had literally just read…

Or _was_ it? He glanced above the long parchment momentarily to give Mansel a hard stare. "You have made a study of the king's penmanship," he noted darkly before laboring on.

"I told you you did not have to trouble yourself over the contents, my lord. Do not worry about the obscure wording; it is a mere traditional formality in such documents."

But the prince was frowning harder. "It seems to me that what you propose would be to levy what amounts to a very heavy import tax on those shadow-traders who would yet do business with us in the current arrangement, to obtain the money _that_ way and see it distributed generally according to status and income as before, with the Castle taking the top cut. But won't that simply drive the merchants off altogether? Amber chiefly produces 'luxury' items, mostly things the outside worlds can do without if push comes to shove, as far as I know. Wouldn't it make more sense for me to ride off into Shadow and simply bring back more gold to help the people for now and to entice the traders to stay and do business with us?"

Mansel's quiet sigh and almost ingratiatingly parental smile irritated Gérard even more than the document; he looked as if he were trying to reason with a slow child. "If you begin to pay people for nothing, that is soon what your so-called 'precious' metals will be _worth_ ," he gently lectured the prince. "Are you aware, my lord, that there is already a fund for failing businesses set up in Amber City? A portion of your nobles' taxes is supposed to go toward it once a season… but that percentage is no longer anywhere near what the general public believes it is, and it hasn't been for a little over 300 years, ever since the late king struck a bargain with a small handful of lords to keep some of his private 'business' private, the initial intelligence which brought the king to this point leaked to the nobility by a man who later lost his life in a fishing accident. But the legal precedent remains to this day. To put it plainly, the Crown _is_ the Fund; it has already seen use a small handful of times, to either help an important businessman through a bad season, or to help rebuild a business after a calamity such as a fire, or to start a new business when a previous career has failed outright for any number of reasons. Each time fresh ore is brought to the mint in secret; each time the citizens of Amber praise our seemingly generous noblesse for their 'progressive' values and long-term vision of the country. And each time, _I_ have had to work on the Shadows, to get the inflation of the stater lowered back to regular amounts as quickly and as quietly as possible. If you were to do as you suggest instead of the steady course which I have taken great pains to ensure is the correct one, how long do you think it will take your people to realize the truth? That the reason they labor and toil all their lives is because Dworkin Overlord decreed that for as long as Order should last, that Amber City _must_ be the pattern for all of civilized life in Order – and that it is a _conscious choice_ that your forebear made, and not the immutable Order of Existence? Had he wished it, Amber could have been a decadent paradise to rival any in the Courts of Chaos: ultimately pleasurable, but bereft of purpose, of _meaning_! How many of your common subjects would be so expansively-minded, given the choice, the option? Many of your people are simple peasants, my lord, but they are hardly stupid; a few of them approach your own venerable age and experience. How long do you think it would take for them to figure out that there is no reason for the Crown to even collect taxes, if the Castle can be completely self-sufficient without anyone's help? Do you truly desire an angry mob beating down your gates and demanding your head if you will not meet their demands while choosing to stay in the True City?! For that is what you are going to _have_ , my lord prince, should the real nature of our economic and social system ever come to light! I swore to both Dworkin Overlord and his mighty son King Oberon with my own blood that I would always act in accordance with my loyalty to both the Crown and to Amber – in _that_ order. I swore not to your brother Prince Eric, for I deemed him a usurper, nor did I make myself known to Prince Corwin, though the nature of his rule was more noble, possibly even sanctioned. As the rightfully appointed regent in a time of ultimate war, I am prepared to so swear to you also, my lord prince, if this is what it will take to convince you of my seriousness, of my well-meaning and loyalty," the minister produced a small penknife and held the tip unflinchingly to the meat of his right palm-

"Stop!" Gérard commanded him, beginning to reach out his own hand, moving to intervene! "Do not harm yourself to make your point! I doubt not your sincerity, but it still seems to me that there must be a better way for us to go about our business than to penalize those who would still come to our markets." The prince sat back again, glanced away, worrying his beard with his front teeth. "How much time would you say we have, at longest, to do something, before the situation gets worse?"

"Perhaps only until the end of the ngan; not even the full winter," Mansel answered quietly. "My heart goes out to you, my lord, for yours is clearly in the right place, but this is not a problem that you can solve on your own," he added almost tenderly. "I have already solved it for you. Just sign."

Gérard momentarily closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. It was not this old man's fault that the prince had been treated like this his entire life – talked down to like he was _stupid_ – but for perhaps the first time in that incredibly long life, Gérard had finally had enough of it. When he reopened his eyes again, the hapless shadow-minister actually involuntarily flinched back at the smoldering ire he read there.

" _I_ will give his matter the serious consideration that it deserves," the prince pronounced powerfully, rising from the couch, forcing the other man to stand also on protocol, "and _I_ will rule on the decision in no more than six days. Does this suffice?"

"It does, my lord," Mansel managed to hold his ground, "but I would beg you to reconsider my proposal as it stands. I am intimately familiar with not only Amber's law but also the law pertaining to trade and many other matters in each of the Golden Circle shadows. You are free to draw upon my many years of experience, whenever you so desire. Which reminds me…" He reached into yet another pocket and extracted a single trump, passing it facedown to the fuming prince. "Your father had this painted of me so that he would not have need of anyone in retrieving me when he wished to consult with me on any number of matters. You may do likewise; I am at your disposal, my lord, at any time, day or night. I am a bachelor with little family, and I live alone in a private house not far from the eastern side of the City."

The prince wordlessly grunted terse acknowledgement, removing his still-warm trump pack from his silken jerkin and adding the single card; apart from his own, it was the only other one that was yet cool to the touch.

"Should you need anything at all…" the minister offered charitably – but the sentiment fell on ears of stone. The blue fire of the prince's eyes made him take a step back, but Gérard's voice was eerily calm.

"What I require, _no one_ has _ever_ granted me. If there is nothing further necessary for you to tell me, you may withdraw."

"Yes, my lord," the old man executed another courtly bow and saw himself to the door, pausing for a moment at the lintel as if he were on the verge of saying something, then thought better of it, mentally collected himself and shuffled back out where the guard was waiting to escort him off the premises.

Gérard paced for a long time in that room like a caged bear before returning to his quarters that night, implications upon implications tumbling forth in his mind in waves.

_Does he know of the Primal Pattern?_ he suddenly wondered after a few minutes had passed, abruptly stopping in his tracks. If the minister did, it might very well explain how a mere shadow-man could work to directly influence the flow of events through a whole series of worlds without ever having to set foot in any of them! Which would suggest that either Oberon or Dworkin had taught him how to do this… and not seen fit to trust any of _them_ with the same knowledge! It was infuriating to be placed in this position, of having the mantle of power but with the expectation that someone else would be wielding it, as if he were not capable, not fit!

The prince suddenly thought of Lord Rein's impotently hollow 'stewardship' and sighed, deflating a bit, finally exiting the room and going upstairs to the king's chambers to look for more information. Regardless of how anyone treated him, he still had the final say on legislation – and six days in which to decide this time. He would show them all: any son of Barimen blood, even were he last, was never _least_.

But, alas, as is often the case with problems we wish would simply unravel from sufficient willpower expended, the carefully controlled economy of the Golden Circle was so tightly interwoven into itself that each strand which might've been loosened to succor Gérard's subjects was hopelessly twined about at least three others which would pull at themselves even worse than before if disturbed, and cutting any of them further was simply out of the question no matter how insignificant some might've appeared at first glance. The more the prince studied that web of interdependence and almost incredulous blind faith, the less it looked like the deliberate construct of any man – even a madman, as his grandfather was purported to be – and more like an organic biological thing, perhaps akin to a planned garden that had been allowed to go wildly to seed for a few centuries, bearing little resemblance to what it had started out as. The hours burned late, then early, and he awoke at midday with his face planted on his father's desk in a pile of papers, the candles gone in a pool of spent wax. Stiffly standing, stretching his back, he glanced out the lattice-paned window, over the white-blanketed dormant palace gardens, beyond to the northern border of the Forest that had been partially cleared for a few acres before the weather turned; if the snow ever let up, the task might be completed in time for spring planting. Of course, the work would have gone a bit more quickly with a few dozen stronger able bodies to perform it. Nineteen out of twenty mature faces in Amber City were yet female on average, and among many other challenges that they had faced so far many had taken to this one with a hardy gusto that was commendable: working women, some who had never held an ax in their lives, taking to the proscribed plots of land with unshakable determination and drive. The full removal of the tree stumps was going to be even harder with many of the stronger, healthier horses gone to the War as well, but at least the project was well underway.

Heading down to the kitchens to raid the pantry (too hungry to wait for luncheon), the prince briefly chuckled at the memory of the last time Rein had eaten here: the man's mildly bigoted views on the sexes had finally circulated among the castle staff, and an old soldier who didn't know the first thing about cooking was put exclusively in charge of the minstrel's portion! Fletcher had quickly taken the hint, but not in the way that might've been hoped, taking to eating in restaurants along the Concourse instead (which he could technically afford, given his stipend from the Crown, but _still_ …) If the man was stubborn when it came to certain things, he certainly wasn't alone, but the number of dissenters to their current social order was definitely low, and dropping as time went by…

Gérard switched machines in the gymnasium again, heading for the rower, the tension set as high as it would go. In Amber, the king had never needed anyone's permission to pass laws or draft legislation, yet in the past Oberon had employed an impromptu 'cabinet' of sorts, mostly staffed with the local nobility, although one or two wealthy merchants eventually broke into the old ranks. Of course most of these had also gone off to the War: Lords Chantris, Feldane, and Karm were all riding in the company of the royal retinue right at this moment, granted that they were still alive. That left only Lords Redwyn and Urien from the original set, two ancient and very self-absorbed men that the prince could hardly imagine being impartial, decent council, along a handful of venerable ladies, many of whom knew precious little of their lords' businesses and associated dealings, coming as they did from a sector of society where such involvement was considered 'unfashionable'. Perhaps one or two could be relied upon for information, but their collective number was hardly inspiring, either. The prince finally stopped rowing, catching his breath as he stood, stretching his legs, wiping the sweat from his face and body with fresh towels, which had just been delivered. Five days had elapsed since that clandestine meeting, which felt more and more like a personal reckoning with each passing hour in which Gérard could not come up with a solution.

Really, he should've been wrestling Hazkhar Garabek – the only remaining Avernian in Amber left from Corwin and Bleys' doomed assault on the True City five years hence – this morning, as was his usual routine once every five days. Upon the death of Prince Eric, whom the shadow-man had been taught since birth was the lord of all evil, the others Barimens had managed to convince him that they were the 'good gods', although he seemed to harbor some resentment against a few of them, namely Caine and Julian (and it was not difficult to imagine why.) Hazkhar eventually took to Gérard as if the prince were some deity like Thor in the flesh, revering him for both his superhuman strength and his open and upright nature, going so far as to petition him through the 'warrior-god' Lord Corwin, Avenger of Evil, to teach such a lowly being as himself to wrestle, to honorably grapple man-to-man, for the art was completely foreign in his country and he had heard Lord Corwin mention once in passing that this was part of the 'god's' strength regimen. There was not much spare time to be had in the years leading up to the Patternfall War, but Gérard had conceded to instruct the man as he could in good humor, the first time tussling with him very gently for fear of injuring the tall, lithe alien… only to find himself tripped on his backside, the bright-red shadow-man reverently waiting for him to get back up, assuming he had won the round! It took some time to teach him the full rules of the sport, but he _was_ gradually improving (although his physique was still far too long and skinny for true wrestling no matter how much he worked out; it had to be the genetics of his species.)

Gérard thought of Hazkhar… then thought better of it. In spite of the breathing techniques Benedict had tried to teach the prince to help him to control his temper, it had only ever worked so far, and he genuinely did not wish to spar with his most loyal devotee when his cortisol and adrenaline were already elevated like this: it made it harder for him to control his movements. Upon leaving the gym, he ordered the servant girl who had come for the towels to pass word along to the Avernian that his session was cancelled today and the real reason why; the prince received a return message in the Yellow Room not twenty minutes later – just before he began the day's few cases a couple hours early – conveying Hazkhar's profuse reverence of Gérard's continuing concern for his mortal flesh and bones, cordially hoping that his favorite god would have the opportunity to spend his ire properly upon those foolish enough to incite his righteous anger thus, ending with a restatement of his undying loyalty as always (along with the half-jesting hope of properly besting him one day in a bout, if the aspiration was not blasphemous.)

_If only this_ _were_ _as easy as bashing a few deserving heads_ , Gérard sighed with a rueful little smile, signing for the stenographer to allow in the first petitioner of the day, taking his elevated seat at the end of the short hall that had nearly been the Throne Room (and for all practical purposes was treated as one anyway.)

Later that day during luncheon (which had gradually morphed into an early dinner when he was busy like this), Lady Vialle addressed his terse silence in spite of the auroch roast, one of his favorite meals.

"Gérard, what is going on?" she had gently yet bluntly put to him.

"What makes you think something new is wrong?" he rejoindered a bit too quickly, his deep voice filled with tension.

"You have only said three words to me in twenty minutes; I am not complaining, I merely noted the irregularity and thought perhaps that there might be something behind it," she quietly observed.

Gerard made a brief humming noise in the back of his throat. For being blind, Random's lady was almost unnervingly perceptive sometimes; it would've been downright scary in anyone less kindhearted.

But how much could he tell her?

"You _are_ right, as always," he measuredly admitted, listlessly stabbing at a roasted potato with his fork, "but it is a delicate private matter, having to do with our current trade problems. It's a tricky thing, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it yet. And I have to decide _soon_."

"I am sorry; I won't pry any further," Vialle demurely backed down.

"I'm not stiff-arming you, Vialle – it's just…"

"I _understand_ ," she reiterated, nodding encouragingly in his direction. "It is all right."

The prince gave an irritated huff, loudly dropping his fork to his plate, lightly surprising her. "No, it's _not_ ," he folded his arms, resting his elbows on the table. "I wish I had someone I _could_ talk to about this, but it's such secret information…" he muttered, trailing off.

Vialle put down her own eating implements more delicately. "Does it have to do with the security of the kingdom?" she cautiously queried, taking a small sip of wine to clear her throat.

"I don't really know. Maybe, in part. What is bothering me is a peculiar piece of legislation, that I'm… being pressured to enact, and I don't know what it will do."

"Pressured by the nobility?"

"I think not," he answered after a moment's serious consideration.

A look of dawning recognition came over the lady's face, into her white-pupilled brown eyes. "A secret advisor to the king… of _course_ ; King Oberon would've had at least one, someone protected from both bribery and threat by enforced anonymity. I think the practice must be common, for Queen Moire often seemed to know things that there was no way for her to know either by normal means, even the spy networks. This person approached you privately recently, telling you to do something you find personally repugnant, stating it is for the good of the country?"

The prince was simply floored. "Queen Moire didn't force you to marry into our family in order to better spy on us, did she?" he only half-jokingly asked, dubiously eying the slight lady.

"No; I merely had few prospects at the time and she wished to assure my future independence, even if that entailed a considerable monetary settlement from a royal divorce," Vialle stated candidly. "I am here honestly, never fear, and I honestly wish I could help. But if you cannot talk about it without endangering someone's life, I couldn't possibly ask you to divulge anything further."

Gérard furrowed his dark brows, thinking. "It _might_ be possible; I don't think I have to tell you anything about them personally to tell you of their proposition. Would you like to hear the document?"

Vialle smiled a small secretive smile. "You wish for _me_ to council you as well?"

"It is terribly complicated and wordy, and I am not sure just what all of it means, only parts. I could certainly use a second pair of eyes- oh, forgive me," he immediately apologized, "I did not mean to belittle your disability."

But the lady was still smiling. "There is no need to apologize; I understand your meaning, Gérard. By all means, let us put our heads together, then, and see if we can unriddle it. Would it be convenient to do this sometime later in the afternoon, or perhaps in the evening?"

"Stay here," he rose from the table, audibly pushing back his chair. "No, don't stand on my account; continue your meal. I'll be right back."

The big man jogged down the long hall, up the three flights of the grand staircase to the king's chambers, retrieved the drafted document from where he'd hidden it in the back of a wardrobe (one could never be too careful with servants coming around to tidy things up periodically), dashing back down to the sitting room with it.

It took them the better part of twenty minutes just to dissect the almost doubletalk-sounding wall of painstakingly calligraphied legalese, with the prince slowly and carefully reading it aloud first all the way through; once he had done so, they started over again. As Vialle began to explain some of the more obtuse portions of it to him in plain, straightforward Thari, Gérard began to realize that this wasn't half as much any sort of normal tariff act as it was a very official-sounding _hostage letter_ , basically threatening (very vaguely) to shut down the shadow-trade again if the various merchants did not take pains to come to Amber as regularly as they had before with the old routes open – and imposing stiff fines on them when they complied! There was absolutely nothing morally defensible about the legislation as far as the prince could tell: the remaining member states of the Golden Circle were to be punished for staying _in_ it! There was absolutely nothing that could possibly induce him to sign it into law now, and he was sorely tempted to throw it on the toasty fireplace they had been sitting next to whilst working on this, but the lack of a truly viable alternative held back his hand.

"Couldn't you just talk to them directly?" Vialle finally suggested. "To the rulers, to the merchants? I know little of the others, but from your own account of the king of Deiga, he seems a very reasonable man, and open to negotiation besides. Perhaps you could simply bargain for a more sturdy position in the new configuration of the shadow-market, with Amber's finished goods and housewares as leverage."

"But that's a part of it, too! Amber control-" The prince barely managed to check himself, and not quite in time. "I mean, Amber has never 'bargained' with _anyone_."

"And that might be just what she needs," the lady astutely refrained from reacting outwardly to the leaked intelligence. "It would be good for her allies, Gérard. It might even be good for your people. That would be my advice: to try to come to an understanding rather than to bully or coerce our neighbors. Will you at least take it under consideration?"

Gérard had begun to slowly smile in spite of himself, feeling a little of the tension leave his frame. There was no rational reason that the parties involved could not reason out their differences like mature adults in this instance. The move might've been politically unprecedented in Amber – to treat her neighbors more like equals, whether they were in truth or not – but the idea _felt_ right to him, in the way that reopening the trade-routes had felt right in the first place. The prince might have not always been able to completely trust his intellect when it came to things he was personally unfamiliar with, but he was beginning to learn to trust his _gut_ instead. Later that day, a proclamation of intent was made at the docks to the handful of foreign tradesmen there, distributed widely along with a bunch of scrolls containing a simple handwritten invitation to any and all the shadow-merchants who conducted business with Amber, along with the appropriate representatives of their respective governments, to come to the True City for a massive economic conference so that the foibles of the new order of things could be properly addressed to the benefit of all (along with their Amberite counterparts, of course.) The measure was bound to be unpopular in certain quarters of the local nobility, but it seemed a far fairer and more beneficial solution all the way around. This action was to be repeated for as long as it took the traders from the shadows who had not been present that day to arrive. While it might take a full ngan to properly schedule such a meeting so that as many as concerned could be in attendance for it, Gérard felt certain that Amber's 'rainy day' fund would be well-supplied, even if he had to disappear in the middle of the night to 'supply' it himself. It reminded him of an old Shadow Earth myth for children that he had heard of while in college there, some harmless nonsense about a magical old man named Santa Claus…

The prince was, therefore, rather understandably surprised when the first complaints started to trickle in barely three days later. They were disconcertingly curious cases all, respectfully referencing a measure he had quietly signed into law not two days prior, obviously for the good of the country, but having rather deleterious results. It took quite a bit of detailed inquiry for Gérard to discover that the business people involved – mostly women – were referring _not_ to the general proclamation, but rather to the very bill that he himself had privately watched dissolve into the flames of the king's own fireplace over a glass of Oberon's private reserve whiskey that he had discovered in the back of a false drawer!

Which could only mean…

There were quite a lot of envisioned waves rolling rhythmically upon smooth beaches and immovable rocks in cool, quiet streams occupying Gérard's head intermittently for much of the afternoon; he had opted to dine alone and in haste for his midday meal, not caring to afford Random's wife any more fodder for the time being for all her good intentions, feeling the need to keep his full attention upon what he knew must come. The very moment the last case was finished for the day before supper, Gérard trod with dire purpose in his blue eyes up to one of the unfinished bedrooms on the mostly unused fourth floor of the Castle – where no one would hear or observe him – a handful of lodged domestic complaints from earlier in the day filling his hands. Fetching the master set of keys and an oil lamp from the king's suite on his way up, the prince reached the cold, partially unfinished top floor and, coming down the thin center hall, let himself into the unused room, which currently only sported a rough wooden table from the dungeons below that clearly no one else had use or space for down there. Setting down both the paperwork and the lamp, Gérard locked the heavy wooden door from the inside, then extracted the shadow-trade minister's trump from his deck, noticing for the first time upon closer inspection that the edges of the card were somewhat worn, likely from frequent use. As distracting as the thought potentially was, he forced himself to concentrate on the man instead; this trump truly was from one of the old packs, for it took even the prince about two minutes' intense concentration to make it come live. When it did, the image morphed around until Gérard was looking at Emrys Mansel, sitting down at an early supper of fish stew, the stiff smell wafting through the portal; the shadow-minister looked up and saw him.

"Good evening, my lord prince," he addressed the prince's magical intrusion into his meal with almost unnerving calm. "I have been expecting you for a day or two now. Would you care to join me for a simple yet honest repast, or should I come through to you?" he graciously inquired, slowly rising to his feet.

The prince actually considered the old man's offer for half-a-second, yet swiftly declined, for he would have had no discreet way of traveling back to the Castle (unlike his shapeshifting father). And he had chosen his own location for a _reason_.

"Come to me. Now," Gérard brusquely gave answer, reaching out his great right hand through the card toward him; dry, thin wrinkled fingers grasped his own, and the prince quickly stepped back, hauling the ancient sage into his physical presence. Quickly dropping his hand, he grabbed a fistful of cases, shaking the papers in his face. "What is the meaning of this treason?!" he roared, forcing the slight man back a step. "I could have you publicly hanged for forging royal documents, with my own signature on a law I never allowed!"

But Mansel was completely unfazed by the outburst. "Calm yourself, my lord prince; anger has yet to truly solve anything. As for my recent actions, if you would but study your own long-standing laws of the realm, you would quickly discover that they are far from treasonous. Concerning Amber's multiplicity of dealings in Other Shadows, the law clearly states that in the event of any member of the royal family performing an unusual action which may directly or indirectly hurt the local economy, indeed the status of the realm – how we appear as a nation to those in Shadow – either the king or the Minister of Shadow-trade may act as they see fit to right the situation as discreetly as possible. There are no limits or provisos to this which I have ever been made aware. Taking it upon myself to publish that law under the given authority of the late king when you would not is perfectly _legal_ , my lord. Go and read the Code for yourself if you doubt my word – your father took no pains to hide this: article twenty-six, paragraph five, line nineteen if I am not mistaken, and in matters of my own expertise I rarely am. In the past I have performed every service for his majesty from devaluing foreign currencies to stopping small wars before they could begin without royal oversight. I take it that certain aspects of this newly-signed measure are distasteful to you, my lord-"

"You are sticking up the entire Golden Circle like a common highway bandit!"

" _My_ concern is the continued supremacy of the True World, the Right Order as we know it! You put _everything_ on the line without thinking of the consequences!" he suddenly snapped passionately. "My _job_ is to protect Amber and her interests – the physical welfare of her people – as much as it has been _your_ job to guard her against marauding demons!"

Gérard had to work very, _very_ hard to restrain himself; the thick muscles of his neck visibly clenched and unclenched several times before he could speak again.

"If you care as much for Amber as you claim," he began quietly, tersely, "then perhaps you would care to explain _this_." And at that he thrust the stack of papers into the old shadow-minister's hands, pacing away, trying to walk out some of his hyped-up tension.

Emrys Mansel glanced through the briefs by the lamplight with muted interest, gleaning their contents, setting aside page after page upon the crude table as he read through them.

" _Well_?" the prince irritatedly paced toward him again, muscular arms crossed, when Mansel was on the final page.

The shadow-minister set it down with a sigh.

"I am given to understand that you and a handful of your brothers and sisters have developed a kind of partiality to different types of government in recent years – democracies, certain breeds of socialism – but the land of your birth always has been and always will be an 'old-fashioned' monarchy. It _must_ be. Sometimes unpopular and difficult decisions must be made for the good of the system; sometimes they are only uncomfortable for some at first. It is the pain of wearing in a new pair of boots that are too small for one's feet: eventually the leather stretches and they fit a bit better. This is only the discomfort of such stretching economically, my lord; the foreign merchants will adjust to it and the dissention will pass. Now, have I adequately addressed your immediate concerns, my lord prince? I should like to return home before my supper is completely cool, if it is not too impertinent to ask."

Gérard was simply flabbergasted – he didn't know _what_ to think! "I may call upon you at a different time then, to speak with you further upon other such matters."

"Of course, my lord prince. Good night's rest to you."

Mansel produced a trump from one of the many pockets in his green robes, barely glanced at it, and disappeared in a flash! The prince had never seen a phase-out like that, _that_ quick of a transport! The trump of the shadow-minister's home had to have been made special-order by Dworkin himself! The man was considered that important… important in a way that neither the prince nor any of his siblings had _ever_ been. The more he thought on it, the situation was as infuriating as it was confounding – and he was helpless to change it! And how _insulting_ and belittling the old geezer had been, as if Gérard were a mere child! How he _hated_ being treated like he was stupid! Like he had no understanding!

Suddenly consciously noting his level of rage – realizing that it was rising beyond the point where he knew he could reliably control himself, that those around him would not come to bodily harm – the prince made a quick executive decision that still fell within his jurisdiction, and, careful to place the oil lamp and the documents on the far side of the room by the door _first_ , proceeded to take his fury out on the crudely made forgotten piece of furniture instead in the partially walled off anterior portion of the musty apartment, not leaving the rooms himself until all that was left was a considerable scattering of wood shards about the floor in the dim light, the front of his jerkin and pants covered in slivers and sawdust.

Spent and weary at last, lamp and papers in hand, Gérard trudged down to his room for a fresh change of clothing; there were teensy bits of wood in his beard also, he discovered upon a quick glance at himself in the glass, shaking his head at his own reflection, meticulously rinsing them out.

Looking (and feeling) a trifle more decent again, he dutifully visited the king's quarters to look for the section of the Code of Amber which verified the shadow-minister's dubious claim to power.

It turned out to be almost appallingly easy to find, only one line's difference from the position the old man had incorrectly remembered. The rest, unfortunately, appeared to perfectly corroborate his story, even if the wording was a bit more vague than had been implied: the text read 'the ruler's appointed financial advisor', not specifically the Minister of Shadow-trade by title, yet the rest of the passage was analogous enough to hold up in court, the position legally defensible. The prince poured himself a badly-needed drink, downing it like a shot, giving a sigh of disgust, settling into the high-backed chair by the hearth – the one with the Crown of Amber skillfully carved into the top of the back. He hadn't had the heart to so much as move the positions of any of the furniture in this room, though as appointed regent he was perfectly free to do so. The chair which he currently occupied whilst staring into the crackling embers during the falling of the early winter dusk had previously been positioned facing another lower chair and a leather couch in a conference formation in the front room of the suite, and had occupied that position as faithfully as if it had been bolted to the floor there for as long as Gérard could remember. The conscious change spoke eloquently of Oberon's frame of mind near the end, that he also had had some brooding to do, and had wished for a sturdy chair in which to do it.

The prince dined alone again late that evening, having missed the main meal of the Castle and in no hurry to speak to his remaining companions of the abysmal turn of events, taking his venison dinner in the king's chambers, sifting through the formidable Code of the Realm for any other telltale signs of the meddling minister's subtle presence. Now that he was in a cooler frame-of-mind, the full implications of Emrys Mansel's standing and actions in relation to the Crown began to gradually blossom in Gérard's mind, layer after layer. The man's level of inherent power was more than a little scary, actually. How many laws and edicts had been passed over the long years since his appointment that none of them had even been aware of, statues that had never born the king's signature and signet stamp? He spent much of the night searching… and came up with _three_ such, all centuries apart, the most recent dating from the reign of Eric, stating how the trade alliances were to operate in the case of a royal deposition!

Sleep did not come easily to the prince that night…

The wheel of the long Amberite year turned slowly through the harsh, barren ngan of Wadra, toward the cusp of Kanam – early spring – and while a downturn in the shipping schedules in and out of Shadow always happened a bit in the season due to inclement weather patterns and the dangers of weighty ice accumulation on rigging and sailcloth alike, there was no denying that the drop was far greater than usual in spite of the draconian edict which had been in effect for over twenty-four days.

_Or_ _because_ _of it_ , the prince thought tersely, listening to the morning's briefings from the _actual_ foreign affairs minister; slated on the day's schedule were also urgent hearings on behalf of the city's steelworking and weaving guilds, convening with the Crown in hopes of addressing a rising number of problems ultimately stemming from the selfsame law, issues ranging from their legal inability to compete with lower-priced foreign goods by altering prices themselves (which the markets had become awash in 'overseas' of late) to the fact that it was growing difficult for many of them to obtain the raw materials necessary to operate their businesses, again, but this time for a completely different reason: many shadow-merchants were refusing to do business with them out-of-hand… like a mass _boycott_ on an 'international' level in protest. Almost as if daring Amber and her current ruler to do their worst, to try to make good on the threat embedded in the new edict. To call their bluff, openly exerting their new economic clout – or perhaps they had had it all along and were only realizing it just now…

One thing was becoming imminently obvious: Gérard couldn't leave things as they were, even with spring planting on the horizon, but what could he _do_?! He had initially been ruefully relieved with the shadow-minister's lack of further overt involvement since that fateful night the prince had bodily dragged the man through to an unused section of the castle for various purposes, but neither had the dubious 'advisor' been present to offer any further help with the new process, seemingly assuming that he had already done what was necessary. With the way things were starting to go, it made Gérard wonder just how competent the old bugger really was anymore… or if he had done this with a very different motive and end in mind altogether. Life had made the prince unwontedly suspicious; the mindset proved difficult to turn off even in the absence of his family.

What if…

The morning session was about as depressing and unsatisfactory as could be expected, with him giving many reassurances and precious little to back them up but vain hope and the trust his people still had in him simply by dint of who he was. But how long could _that_ currency last in the face of a growing widespread shutout? It wasn't affecting the food supply too badly, yet, but if this trend continued it would start to, well before even the early harvest could be gathered…

"I didn't even _sign_ it," Gérard muttered quietly through gritted teeth, grabbing a roll and savagely ripping it in half before using it to sop up the capered wine sauce from the haddock he and Vialle had been served for dinner; this made the third night in a row. At least the Castle cook was putting a brave face on their situation, going all out to dress up identical cuts of fish.

"Sign what, Gérard?"

The prince looked at her gently concerned features, his pride put to shame. "I can't lie to you anymore!" he scooted his chair closer so that he wouldn't have to raise his voice to be able to be heard. "That damned minister managed to pass that edict behind my back without my knowledge! And I learned after the fact that it's perfectly legal for him to pull stunts like this; there's a clear section of our law written to accommodate him! If I exposed him… but I _can't_ expose him!"

Vialle quietly gasped, her right hand covering her mouth. "If anyone knew, he wouldn't live through the night! He'd be run through or burned alive in his house before any of your soldiers could stop it! Are you saying there is truly a man in Amber who has been given legal right to alter the Code of the Realm?"

"Not exactly; his jurisdiction would appear to only extend to the financial welfare of the state and our economic dealings in Shadow, but the wording is very vague, the position of a protective nature. That's an awful lot of power even by itself. Apparently he was even planning on Eric's monarchy failing! And I can't help wondering if he's planning on the same for me!"

"Well… are you or are you not the _rightfully_ appointed regent of Amber?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," the prince ruminated, leaning back slightly in his chair – testing the legs first to ensure it was sturdy enough to support his frame and weight this way. "Maybe this is why my father felt safe leaving someone like me 'in charge' in the first place: because he already had someone appointed to keep me from doing anything foolish by his reckoning, to keep me in line; I can just see him doing this! But Oberon had been away and out of communication with Amber for so long that there is no telling just what all really happened in his absence, if this man has been working at anything other than his job! And I got to thinking: what if he has connections to other official secret personnel we don't know about? Oberon always had at least one old professional hitman on his payroll, and any number of spies at any given time. Maybe this man has been waiting all these years for just this opportunity, this set of circumstances, to make his move, his bid for even greater power! And I may not be able to legally stop him!"

"Slow down, Gérard; don't let your fears run away with your reason. Perhaps we can unravel this one a bit at a time. You say there is legal precedent for this man's power to make and pass laws? Would it be too presumptuous to ask you to read it to me?"

The prince needed no second-bidding at the offer of real help; he promptly excused himself and retrieved the section of the Code which contained the proviso. Much of Amber's legal documentation had started out as individual decrees and edicts on single pieces of vellum and later parchment, but eventually there were enough of them that either Dworkin or Oberon had had them bound into huge, heavy tomes so that none of them would get lost. Bringing back the correct book with him to the sitting room in which they had taken to dining, he slowly set it down with a low thunk which lightly reverberated through the more delicate table in spite of the effort to be careful. Thumbing through the crusty pages, Gérard quickly located the passage again and read her not only the concerned paragraph in full, but the parts that came immediately before and after it, taking pains to pronounce it clearly and distinctly, even an antiquated word or two whose meaning currently eluded his memory.

"He's merely taking advantage of a poorly-worded loophole," his delicate companion pronounced at length, "but his actions fail to illuminate any possible ulterior motive with clear intent, however. Perhaps he _does_ think that he is in the right, whether he is or not. I wouldn't worry overmuch about him at the moment in any event, if for no other reason than it might be politically profitable for you to not treat him as an overt enemy unless positively proven otherwise. Are there any passages which would prohibit a rightfully-appointed regent from directly changing pre-existing law himself?"

"Unfortunately yes," Gérard sighed, "and they're well-known. All of my brothers had shown interest in the point, and so learned not to get their hopes up that way – and Dad wasn't ever absent long enough to appoint a regent anyway. Only the king as ever held that power."

"And, apparently, the king's financial advisor," the lady shrewdly pointed out. "Wait… read it to me again: it starts 'ruler', not _king_ , does it not?" she suddenly asked, her sightless eyes widening.

Gérard's own breath quickened slightly, the idea sparking then catching fire in his brain; scanning back, he saw that she was right! "Yes!"

"And perhaps," Random's lady continued, a slow smile creeping into the corners of her small mouth, "you cannot do this thing on your own volition alone, your highness, but you _do_ have a willing party who would gladly act as _your_ secret advisor, in finance and anything else you might need, if you would but appoint me; all that would be necessary is a little paperwork, just a simple signed statement of intent – no witness is needed, I should think. Would you command me, Gérard?" she turned in his direction, reaching out for one of his hands.

The prince let her find him – and she instantly bowed where she sat, daintily kissing the back of his knuckles in show of fealty.

It was a strange feeling…

"I would gladly accept your service, Vialle, and I will never think less of you for stooping to this position."

"Ah, but it can hardly be considered stooping when I have an ability which is denied even to you, though I would never be fool enough to use it on my own without your knowledge," she let go of him, turning back to her own place, searching for her own wine glass, quickly locating it and taking a sip. "As your new advisor, my lord, my first advice to you of course concerns our current state-of-affairs. Did you ever officially recant or otherwise nullify your previous invitation to the other shadow-kingdoms and their ambassadors and merchants to convene in Amber to discuss trade?"

"No – I think they must've simply assumed it when the second edict went into effect; I never heard back from anyone."

"If I were you, I would send out an official apology for the 'communication mix-up' tomorrow, stating that the second order had been accepted on council – you need not mention whose or how – but that you had only meant for the measure to be temporary until this inter-shadow summit could be completed, to protect Amber's interests in the meantime. We cannot possibly be the only ones struggling to cope under the new system, if for no other reason than Shadow is indirectly affected by all that befalls Amber; you should find at least a few pairs of sympathetic ears who are familiar with our plight. Do not try to overturn the other ruling for the moment; it will keep your other advisor from growing unduly suspicious, and doing it in this manner and order will back up your own story."

It really was superb advice. Before the evening was out the prince had led the lady up to the king's chambers, to add her signature to a hastily drafted document the prince drew up on the spot, indicating her change in status until further notice, notarizing and sealing it himself, placing the scroll in the false-backed drawer with the Glenlivit, feeling confident that if any of his brothers had known of this hiding place that the whiskey would've been long gone.

And for once things fell out exactly as arranged: the emended invites went out quietly 'under the radar'. The prince opened up the 'nobility emergency fund's' coffers, distributing to the worst in need, gradually letting out that life in Amber was about to become quite a deal better sooner than later and not to lose hope: the Crown, such as it was, would always care for her subjects. It took thirteen days more for the official replies to start trickling into the Castle: there was near-universal resentment and confusion from those contacted (and even a few notable holdouts, rather rudely wishing the prince good luck without them), but for the most part all of the major parties involved in the shadow-trade with Amber were still onboard, and the general time that had been speculated was agreed to since a specific date would've been impossible: early Kanam, once the sea ice was melted from the harbor, although the sooner they could arrive in the True City the better. The prince held conference after open conference with all of Amber's trade guilds and her remaining representative nobility with business interests in the days leading up to the summit, hearing their concerns and requests, with copious notes taken for his later use by the aging royal scribe (one would not know it from his impeccable penmanship, however.) Gérard even managed to arrange for the inter-shadow conference to be held in a room in the Castle which had a hidden panel, behind which his advisor Vialle could hide in the dark, taking notes in her own fashion, on small tablets of wood covered in sheets of melted and hardened wax and a sharp stylus, from where the prince could brief her during recesses for subtle information which might have eluded him the first time around, everything from quiet personal or national vendettas in the form of unfair trade practices, to certain players trying to pull a fast one on 'slow' Gérard in any number of ways. As a result, Amber's regent would appear to them to be far shrewder and deep-thinking than any of the reports about him that had been circulated had ever suspected or anticipated; with any luck, it would keep the other agents more honest and paint a far better picture of him both at home and abroad. Between him and the Lady Vialle, they were prepared for everything.

But that left one meeting more, which the prince was _not_ looking forward to, but knew had to happen before all those ambassadors, dignitaries, merchants, and a foreign royal (or two or three) descended upon the City and the Castle for all and sundry to see, with goods and coinage to spare on the locals. And he had to handle this one alone.

Gérard chose one of the 'smaller' first-floor sitting rooms for his third run-in with the renegade shadow-minister, just off the main hallway – the only one with a single door, which could be _locked_ – once again in the evening, this time deliberately timed to be after the old man's main meal so as to rob him of any excuse to be curt or disrespectful. Fortified with a good dinner himself and not too much wine – and Vialle's encouragement – the prince felt ready for him for once. Two drinks were already poured, sitting on a small circular table between two stuffed leather chairs beside a cozy fire. All the paperwork was in order, sitting in a neat little stack between the two brandy glasses (the only hard liquor actually made in the country, courtesy of Baron Bayle, of course.) The door was locked, the nicely furnished room adequately lit with oil lamps and candles, bathing the place in an invitingly warm glow.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. Gérard withdrew his trump pack and removed the ancient trade-minister's equally ancient card, concentrating on it, wishing this trump worked with the same acuity as the one in the old man's possession (which upon a moment's further side reflection, was likely only a concession by Dworkin to the man's lesser physiological and mental nature.) The thought increased the prince's own confidence… and suddenly he was through, the contact flaring live.

Emrys Mansel was seated in a rustic study of sorts crowded with bookshelves, hunched over in a comfortably worn-in padded chair, reading by candlelight in front of a tiny crackling hearth; Gérard could see fat flakes of snow falling just outside a thick-paned sandglass window. The minister looked up rather nonchalantly.

"Good evening, my lord prince," he sighed, as if Gérard were just any old visitor wishing to drag him away from his night's entertainment as he set his novel aside on the armrest. "What is it that you wish of me?"

His manner reminded the prince eerily of his father for a moment, but he quickly shook the impression. "We need to talk," Gérard answered bluntly. "Tonight. Is there anything that you would wish to do before I pull you through? We will be some hours."

"If you would indulge an old man and give me but ten minutes, my lord, I will be at your disposal for as long as you may need me," he was already rising.

"I'll call back then. Be ready," the prince ordered simply, passing his right hand over the card to deactivate it, placing it facedown upon the table. He casually paced away, thumbing through the rest of his deck yet again – all warm, too warm, save his own which grinned up at him with the lusty jauntiness of his brash youth. The image began to stir, but Gérard covered it, knowing what he would see: impeccably combed dark-brown hair and a neatly trimmed fringe-beard, a stiff 'Elizabethan'– style lace collared jacket in deep royal blue, with dove grey silk showing through the elaborately slashed sleeves; he wore dark blue pants to match, and his big black leather belt and boots were polished to a perfect high shine, no scuffs. Playing with the theatricality of his own position still felt forced and strictly artificial, but Gérard was beginning to appreciate its use as a kind of psychological armor, as effeminate as the 'high fashion' of the realm could run. It always forced people to remember the extreme level of power that stood behind such lavish personal adornment, commanding an inbred knee-jerk sort of respect without the prince having to do or say anything at all except to look confident. His intended audience was likely well-aware of all that from long experience with the previous monarch, but no matter; it helped _him_ to feel confident anyway. Or, at least, to better act the part.

Ten minutes clicked by on the tall polished darkwood antique grandfather clock which stood on the other side of the room, between a 'classical' marble statue of a beautiful draped woman and an intricately carved bookcase stuffed with light reading materials in a small variety of languages (though most were in Thari.) At the appointed time, Gérard reactivated the trump: its subject was standing with a leather file folder cradled in his thin arms, eying the prince expectantly.

"Ready when you are, my lord prince."

He reached out one wrinkled hand toward him and Gérard grasped it firmly, hauling him through in a single stride. To the shadow-minister's surprise, the prince proceeded to relieve him of his burden without a word, placing it also upon the table before taking up stately residence in the hefty chair to the left.

"I will confess, my lord, to being somewhat puzzled that you saw fit to call upon me at all," Mensal began a bit peevishly. "You seem confident in running the empire to suit yourself regardless of-"

" _Sit_ ," the prince ground out forcefully, pointing to the other chair, watching the old man take an involuntary gulp, knocking him off his proverbial perch, "and _listen_." Gérard's blue eyes bored holes into the shadow-minister as he took his seat with what dignity he could still muster. The prince took a steadying breath – seeing his guest relax slightly in response – and leaned forward, taking the brandy in front of him, inclining his head slightly in a rather courtly cue; his companion quickly raised his own glass in suit. "Your health," he muttered, taking only a polite sip before replacing it before him on the table, catching Mansel in a swift surreptitious glance at the stiffened frills at the prince's wrists. Whichever of his brothers became king next, Gérard hoped they would outlaw certain clothing trends in the True City as general crimes against humanity. He closed his eyes for a second, centering himself; when he opened them again, he saw the shadow-minister was sitting at attention, likely wondering what the prince had in store for him… if not a swift trip to the dungeon. Gérard had been choosing his words all afternoon in preparation for this. The time had come to speak them.

"I do not doubt your learning, your tutelage under Dworkin and later my father. I do not doubt that you have at least a few millennia's experience under your belt, that were you not the best of the best when it came to the old scheme of running Amber's commerce that the old king would've quietly disposed of you long ago. I am even willing to believe, in absence of convincing argument to the contrary, that your motives in doing what you have recently done were well-meaning, that you risked facing my wrath for the good of the True City. But, regardless of what either of us thinks about each other, it has become far too apparent even to the likes of me that we are no longer playing the game that you were taught. For better or worse, the old rules do not work anymore; the still-worsening results of _your_ preemptory edict should be enough to convince you of that much. And I am sure you are aware by now that in two-to-three days' time I intend to attempt a different, more friendly style of negotiation with our neighbors and allies in Shadow which will be of benefit to us all – equally. We cannot pretend that we are the center of the worlds when it comes to goods and services which those worlds might need or want, that, humiliating as it might be for some here, the reality is just the opposite – and we have none other than Dworkin and Oberon to thank for it. We can no longer refuse to act – or to continue bullying the others – in a vain attempt to save face and our notorious national pride. Which is why I have called upon you, before the conference."

The shadow-minister looked both depressed and bewildered. "I am still at my lord's command. But what could you possibly command of me that would do any good, if you plan on throwing out the book? If I openly oppose you again, you would have my head, I am certain of it! I would have sacrificed myself for _nothing_."

The old man's tendency toward martyrdom grated on the prince's nerves, but he deliberately chose to ignore it, pressing ahead. "Our outlook isn't as bad as all that," Gérard took his glass, taking a larger swig from it this time. "In fact, from the bits of it that I have observed over the past ngan, the game seems to have shifted toward a style of play which I am _very_ familiar with personally: a sport where people of different talents and abilities must come together and cooperate as a _team_ , to reach a common goal," he unexpectedly smiled a little. "I know where my talents lie; economic planning is not one of them. Regardless of how I feel about you personally, you are our realm's expert in these matters, and, if I don't miss my mark, you have been for almost as long as there has _been_ a realm. The position is worth protecting in the short and long term, even if the specialized player in it blows a game or two."

"While I appreciate your highness' candor in letting me know where I stand," Mansel began with the same level of care he would take in treading barefoot over broken glass, "I still do not understand how you wish for me to operate in this. You _do_ realize that what you are proposing amounts to a complete democratization of our trading principles, an open marketplace, which would also open the realm up to a potential level of instability which we as a nation have not endured since the Death Storm?"

"I _am_ ," stated the prince firmly, "and I realize that the idea would be considered too radical for our allies at large as well, although I think some of them may already be experimenting with it closer to home in their local shadow-groups. We do not have to give away our full power, I should think, just spread it around a little better so that the others feel they can trust us again. But we're _all_ going to be floundering like fresh haddock in the bottom of a fishing boat without a playbook. You seem good at making up rules, from some of your other work that I have discovered," he pulled a couple of old documents out of his own pile and made a show of looking at them without showing the minister – and met his eyes over them. "You figure it out. I have brought you good examples of our local needs," he pointed to the stack of steno'ed notes to the right, "and from what you have told me of yourself, you have an intimate working knowledge of what the other parties are bringing to the field. Neither of us is resting tonight until I have something sound and definite to present to them. How would you suggest we begin?"

Emrys Mansel seemed stunned, completely disarmed by the prince's open and sincere concern – and his _trust_!

"On a better foot, it would seem. I believe I was too hasty in my judgment of you, my lord prince, and for this I must beg your forgiveness. Do not take this the wrong way, but I do not think I have ever met a man like you," the shadow-minister began to slowly smile, taking another sip of his own drink, extracting a small stack of clean parchment and a fountain pen from the side pocket of his 'briefcase', settling down to what promised to be a long night's work.


	4. Perchance to Dream (or, The Temptation of St. Gérard)

Chapter 4 – Perchance to Dream (or, The Temptation of St. Gérard)

No one knows so well as a prince of Amber how coldly insensitive the power Time can be, how the ancient dance continues on with or without one, days bleeding into seasons into _years_ , endlessly cycling toward the entropy of Chaos which the Unicorn supposedly held at bay from the True World and her Shadows.

But where _was_ She? Where were Gérard's brothers and sisters, the lords and troops of Amber? It was going on twenty-one years since the mass exodus of manpower just prior to the outset of the Patternfall War and all the prince had to show for his family was a pocketful of warm trumps, the old cards slowly starting to warp a little in the absence of the magic that had made them (and the fact that they almost never left Gérard's person anymore, getting slightly bent from being pressed to his chest inside his sumptuously regal clothing all the time.) At first the prince had tried – multiple times – to figure the time-difference between the pinnacle of Mount Kolvir (technically the 'center' of their world) and the hellishly fluctuating shadow that Benedict had shown him briefly via a special trump, where part of the army had been taken through. That mysterious woman Dara (whom the prince had never been able to bring himself to trust, even after his father's approval of her) had rattled off the formula once for their general knowledge; how had that infernal doggerel run again? Something about 'half-past the Great Divide, minus a quarter-turning counterclockwise (of _what_?!) plus the elevation (which was measured not in feet in the Courts but in severed _heads_ ), divided by the distance from the Thelbane, which had to be rounded up to the nearest prime if the Abyss blocked the direct approach (it _did_ , apparently, with the capitol building of Chaos darkly wavering like a thing out of nightmare beyond that deathly gorge, a black stiletto blade of a tower slicing up into the garishly shifting sky.) And that sky… one then had to add in the gravitationally slowing influence of the downward swing of particular stars and the elemental lightening effects of the chemical components in the colored band one was standing under _at that moment_ … but even this amount of mental aerobics was only nominally accurate for approximately ten minutes local-time there at best! And that could only be an approximation, for the formula didn't go into the singular Chaosian phenomenon of time itself periodically running in retrograde due to the erratic fluctuations of the Logrus!

Could anyone sane actually come from such a place? He had wondered that on many occasions since the fateful meeting that had brought back their father. Random's son Martin had told Gérard other things about those shadows as well before leaving with Dara for the Courts in a last-ditch effort to gain audience with the king of Chaos, to beg him to call off his troops so that they wouldn't be needlessly slaughtered on the Black Plain by the Amberite army if a peaceful surrender could yet be brokered! At least that's what the boy had believed was going on... There was just something about a woman who was the result of a Chaosian breeding experiment that had utilized Benedict of all people as the stud, then continued on using Corwin! Martin had also been excited to go because he had only gotten to meet his cousin Merlin the once – and he, too, was being kept from the battle for strictly political reasons. That Corwin had any adult son was enough to give Gérard serious pause despite the affection he held for his problematic elder brother, but the potential of that tricksy mind in a shapeshifter's body… It might've fit Oberon's purposes, for his intended heir to have one of his own all ready to go, as it were, but Gérard still didn't like it, any of it. The prince hoped that wherever Martin was at the moment that he was at least safe; he was a good, likeable kid, but while Random's son had learned a fair amount of self-defense from his uncle Benedict, he was by no means a natural fighter.

And everything kept on flowing out there, with the alien forces that pulled and warped the flimsy fabric of hell, even tearing it open in places, wide enough to allow one to step through into different dangerous pocket shadows… And these changes were so extreme, like the temperature changes on Shadow Earth's moon; time almost came to a standstill at the peaks of a native Chaosian range called the Shifting Mountains, but screamed by so fast that a child could be born and reach physical adult maturity in a single 'cycle' in certain reaches of the plains of the Black Zone! Merlin had been raised by a segment of their noble Court in such a place on purpose, as his mother had been, and her mother before her! If there was one commodity that perhaps all intelligent sentient life seemed to value and appreciate equally, it was Time.

Had it only been hours, a 'day' or two perhaps, that that legendary battle had raged? Or had it been over for centuries, with no Amberite survivors left to tell the tale, or even worse taken captive and slowly going mad in places of unimaginable torment and drudgery? There was literally no way of knowing, and the fact gnawed at the prince's big heart. How could he move on without that knowledge? If they truly were gone he needed to be able to appropriately mourn them and better establish his position, unsavory as the idea still was. And if they were still alive…

How long was long enough to wait? A century? Several centuries? The following winter? It was easy to reprimand himself in hindsight for not peppering Dworkin with more pertinent questions when he had had the chance instead of mentally gaping like a fish at his forebear's garish taste in clothing. Why had he always been so intimidated by that ancient little dwarf?! On the whole their grandsire had often cared more for their welfare than their father had, at least in their youth, even if he was a touch insane all the way back then. Perhaps it _had_ been his… his Chaos-ness, that had initially made him seem formidable, the instinctual sense that he was _not_ as they were.

Not that such things mattered now…

So much time had already passed that there were grown men in the prime of life in the land of Amber again, taking up the positions and tasks left vacant by their fathers, brothers and uncles (even though many of the True City's women chose to remain gainfully employed, having found a different sort of fulfillment outside of the homestead and marriage bed in the long absence of their husbands.) In another generation, one would not even notice the difference in the population. There were hopes of refilling Amber's navy with homegrown sailors; many of the grand vessels of the royal armada had been grounded in the shipyard with not enough hands to sail them, let alone properly maintenance them, and a great amount of repair work would be needed to get the fleet operable once more.

The native merchants had been reduced to hiring foreign crews in the interim, mostly from Begma, but some of the recruits were filtering in from very far away indeed from the looks of them. A few of those shadowmen only spoke sufficient guttural Thari to do their jobs, their facial cast and general appearance suggestive of the Chaosian horde! The strangers never caused any trouble, however, often going out of their way to avoid both attention and the company of other people whenever they made port, and Gérard suspected that they were either defectors of the army of the Serpent, or had simply been marooned in Order by the sudden mass erasure of the Black Road – their only feasible path home – and they had resigned themselves to making the best of their involuntary exile. While it was tempting to detain one of them privately for basic interrogation, the prince quickly decided that it was best to leave well enough alone: there _had_ to be justice in Order for these aliens to continue to respect it.

It didn't stop him from being curious about them in passing…

On the whole, the shadow-trade was not only merely surviving: business was _booming_ both at home and abroad with the introduction of a sort of capitalism into the old controlled system that had never been allowed before in any time in their country's history, even with some of their old partners who were in historically more self-reliant shadow-worlds still cut off. While it wasn't an entirely 'free' market, it was far more open and so far the realm had been profiting from the new arrangement… which was _still_ being carefully looked after unbeknownst to the worlds-at-large by the man who had almost single-handedly steered the previous system; Emrys Mansel had managed to handle the awkward transition with the patience and grace of his position, as well as his incredibly long existence. There had only been one minor 'dip' in the markets so far and all parties involved had come out relatively unscathed, but afterwards the shadow-minister came beating down the Castle door again, to ask the prince for further example data sets from other worlds so that he could better educate himself in the new process, to prevent such from happening again if possible. The request proved a hard one to fill, with Gérard unable to leave his post in Amber, although he did managed to dig up a couple of dust-caked tomes on Shadow Earth economic theories for the man, who promised to study them thoroughly for future reference. While steam industry had yet to be approved in the True City out of concerns for the air quality in subsequent Shadow, one or two of their distant neighbors were beginning to experiment with it on a small scale, and while it was not the great and terrible machine of societal change that it had become elsewhere along the spectrum, a small handful of true wonders of engineering and art were beginning to gradually trickle out of Cibola and Dandarra, treasures that were highly prized even in the True City.

And that City itself had expanded into the surrounding countryside; where there had once been only virgin forest, small towns and farms were springing up along Amber' southwestern coastline, and north beyond Kolvir, linking them by land to neighbors in Shadow _directly_ for the first time! Even if the Crown no longer wielded a monopoly over the worlds, neither were their subjects suffering privation. In fact, the True City was well on its way to being self-sufficient when it came to the essentials of life – something that should've been accomplished long ago. All-considered, things really were going amazingly well.

Except for one rather small-nigh-inconsequential little problem which the prince was privately struggling with at the moment; if it had concerned nearly anyone else, the predicament would've only been mildly embarrassing to him – the idea of the pair of them was patently ridiculous!

If he was ever foolhardy enough to act on this, though, Random would have no compunction whatever about attempting to kill him by any means possible. If he yet lived.

As much as he was currently trying to deny it to himself, Gérard really _was_ starting to fall for his brother's wife in earnest. The fact grated the wrong way against every moral fibre in his sizable body, but…

The situation had started out innocently enough. Both as his advisor and his friend – indeed one of the only people in the Castle that he felt he could freely talk to – the prince wound up spending quite a lot of time with Lady Vialle, first mostly in serious discussions about the realm, about various issues which Gérard had to make important decisions on with long-lasting consequences. He simply wanted to do right by the kingdom, and from the few times he had attempted to convene the king's remaining cabinet, he quickly learned why Oberon rarely called upon these men: all of them were far too partisan on most counts. He was far more likely to get a straight answer (and sometimes even unasked-for clarification) from the quiet Rebman woman who lived right under his nose. Vialle never belittled him when he needed that help, when he was confused about something – in fact she often painted it as courageous that a prince of Amber would openly admit to someone so far beneath them that they _didn't_ have all the answers, and would be open to listen to the opinions of others, even a foreigner such as herself, to give their credence weight.

It if were for this aspect of the lady alone, she would've easily put the rest of Amber's nobility to shame. And it was not even spoken in an attempt to garner favor or power by flattering the prince: she really meant it! With so many competing voices clamoring for just those things – and far more (he had begun receiving offers for politically-based marriage proposals of all things in recent years), Vialle was a safe harbor, a calm still eddy in the midst of an increasingly brutal current.

_Yes. Just too much time spent,_ he had decided definitively when he first started to notice the impulse about a decade back, brushing off the idea the _first_ time. It certainly wasn't lust. The lady was too small for his taste, too skinny, almost no moulding in all the places that there should've been plenty – a swimmer's boon for a woman, he had been taught once, but not much use on land. He had grown accustomed to seeing her, but there was no mistaking where she was from, with her somewhat flattened, dainty porcelain features and slight chin, her large liquid eyes that would've had a near-piscean luminosity had the pupils not been marred white from her affliction. In fact, the only outward feature she possessed that was not commonly Rebman was her dark-brown hair – a near-match to his own – which marked her ancestors as very old stock indeed for the underwater kingdom; the pastel-haired peoples of the deep were technically immigrants out of Shadow in the distant past, but how or why they had even managed to come there was only known to Queen Moire, and _her_ small, green-lipped mouth was sealed on that particular matter!

Of course there was more than looks alone when it came to appreciating the fair sex, but the idea didn't even bear considering here. Vialle was family (though the concept wasn't much of a deterrent in Gérard's family, even when it came to matters of direct blood!) She was spoken for: that was the important part. Who was he to interfere?

And yet he couldn't countenance shuffling her off in some corner with her ladies' maid all the time, either, like an unwanted dependent. _That_ feeling was a little too familiar to not only the prince, but likely most of his siblings from their own youth. He had never once heard the lady utter a single complaint over anything at all, but all the same he came to be very conscientious of her, making sure that the servants allowed her to easily vary her sensory activities, whether that meant hiring a busking violinist straight off Temple Street to play for her as a nice surprise, or helping her to tend her small medicinal garden in the growing season out in the substantial palace grounds. Vialle had been trained formally as a healer in Rebma since she had displayed an early intuition when it came to people's ailments. Of course she was still learning land-based botany, which was completely different from what had once filled her old medicine conch, save for a couple species of seaweed which could be harvested near the shore. She was carefully memorizing every plant by the shape of its leaves, by its smell, how tall it grew and when and where. As Prince Random's wife, it was technically unnecessary for her to work at all, but Vialle insisted. She would _not_ be useless here in her new life. Once she was more confident in her studies, she even hoped to open up a small practice in the city, likely right on Concourse. The very idea of it was socially radical, but she was unfazed, determined. Gérard had no doubt that the lady could accomplish anything she put her mind to. She was very proud of her plot of earth and loved showing it off to the prince when the various herbs were in season. This would often devolve into a rambling walk through the Castle's formal rose gardens which the lady also loved, reverently taking the heavy blooms in her delicate hands, inhaling the rich perfume in clear pleasure. Her maid used to follow them at a distance for propriety's sake when Gérard accompanied her like this, but after a time the prince began to silently sign for the servant to remain behind in the gazebo and to rejoin them on the way back inside. It wasn't like they were ever totally out of eyeshot anyway, and he was growing to enjoy the pretense, leading the slight lady gently on his strong left arm, describing what she couldn't see, talking with her casually of unimportant things. He eventually noticed that she never once mentioned her husband during these outings, but perhaps the subject was merely painful for her. What could be more natural? Random had technically been missing-in-action for years, goodness-knows where. It didn't signify anything more than that, surely.

When had he gotten to be so paranoid?! He wasn't even doing anything wrong!

Or _was_ he?

The lady's other passion was clay sculpture, a hobby she had also learned in the undersea kingdom, though she claimed that certain aspects of it were far easier on dry land. She did miss her old natural kiln, though; the chemical reactions from the ocean-floor heat vent had apparently added interesting colors and crackle-patterns to some of the finishing glazes she had used down there, and Vialle had been able to tell by smell alone when the pieces were set. While she was perfectly capable of working pots, vases and cups on the wheel, as well as more abstract pieces of art, the lady had a true gift for human visages and forms. At the moment she was in the middle of making a series of allegorical figures; each stood between three and four feet tall and were in an astonishing array of poses and expressions (an unfinished bust of Random stood on a shelf in the corner, carefully shrouded in a soft sheet which the servants had been ordered to keep damp at all times to keep the piece from drying out before it could be properly completed and fired.) She preferred to be alone while sculpting, and one of the spare furnished bedrooms on the third floor had been converted into a studio for her, but the brick kiln had been built out in the very back of the gardens for safety's sake, and she required assistance in getting her artworks transported down there in one piece as well as getting the thing lit; the prince was often there to supervise these proceedings. He could see why she liked this craft; there was an element of alchemy in the process. Vialle had once even offered to teach him the basics, but he embarrassedly laughed off the idea.

"A lump like me isn't going to turn out a masterpiece; a master _mess_ would be far more likely!"

But the Random's lady had not laughed. "Why do you always underestimate your abilities, Gérard?" she smiled sadly. "You don't seem a lump of clay to me; the sculpting simply isn't complete yet is all. It shouldn't be for a long time, I should think; you are not even middle-aged for a Barimen. From what I can 'see', the process is coming along nicely."

Her answer simply floored him, the words floating about the perimeters of his mind like buoys in a harbor for a long while after…

Why, after all this time, had he finally swallowed the lie that he was _stupid_? It wasn't a conscious belief or decision on his part; he had simply _absorbed_ it, having heard it (or analogous iterations of it) for centuries from his family… usually when he was being trusting or otherwise decent!

He wouldn't let himself believe it anymore. But more than that, somehow he wanted for _her_ to believe _in_ him, in what she saw him _becoming_.

Ridiculous. Foolish. Stupid.

_No, it isn't_.

Upon the tenth anniversary approximation of the Patternfall War (the pull of the tides of Shadow made exact dating in the True World scientifically impossible) there was a multishadow celebration and commemoration hosted by Castle Amber. Both the palace and the City were teeming with visitors and there was feasting every night for ten days, with acts brought in from all over the Golden Circle for the diners' entertainment: singers and musicians, tumblers and jugglers and even a daft motley fool or two, the better of which were like stand-up comedians. It wasn't like Gérard never thought of his family – he did often enough on a regular basis – but the festivities perhaps inevitably put him in mind of better times, the memories meshing and flowing together, all their subjects absent: Julian feeding little bits of meat under the table to a falcon he had smuggled into the hall; Caine openly flirting with two ladies at once, strangely neither minding the other's presence; Benedict discussing 'eastern' martial arts with Eric, trying to instill their accompanying cool-headed philosophy; Corwin and Deirdre, thick and thieves, deep in conversation, the others presently forgotten; Flora and Fiona pretending to get along just long enough to swap juicy bits of court gossip; Random pratfalling, getting drunk faster than the others; Llewella silently watching the spectacle with her secretive little smile, if she was present at all ( _that_ had been rare); Bleys on the dance floor all night, partner after beautiful partner, his blue eyes afire; Brand…

The prince would not allow himself to think fondly of Brand, even though he had not always been their enemy, even though Gérard himself had once saved his life almost single-handedly. Of all the _ingratitude_ …

"Where did you go?"

Gérard blinked; Vialle was seated to his left. Rein had been to his right at the high table up till just recently; the other tables had been laboriously pushed out of the way by the servants so that their guests could more freely dance to the lively tunes emanating from up in the musicians' loft, starlight streaming in through the huge beveled windows in the west wall. Bleys would have loved this; Rein was certainly enjoying himself down there.

"I'm still right here, Vialle," Gérard lightly touched the lady's hand, which currently rested against her wine goblet; she let go of it and lightly grasped his large fingers with her thin, soft ones.

"Ah, but you _did_ leave us," she gently teased. "You grew very quiet for several minutes and I sensed no movement, yet your breathing was still too active for you to have fallen asleep in your chair."

She had observed everything except for his eyes unfocusing in reverie!

"Do you always observe me so closely, lady?" he warmly put to her, feeling the effects of the alcohol; he'd allowed himself a bit more than he usually did anymore, ostensibly for the occasion.

"Someone has to be concerned for the welfare of Amber's regent," she carefully chose her words, pulling out of his grasp again, taking another drink herself. "Are you not going to go and dance with your guests? You need not sit here with the blind girl all evening. Go on, enjoy yourself. Your brothers and sisters would want you to be happy."

But Gérard shook his head with a self-conscious grin… then remembered himself, who he was with. "I think _not_. I was just remembering my more graceful and coordinated brothers, among other things. I've never really been one for all that formal dancing; there have been a few broken feet and shins among the partners I tried out in my youth. It isn't worth risking those fine ladies getting injured from my clumsy, heavy steps."

Vialle thought for all of two seconds, then signaled a nearby servant to pull back her heavy oaken chair so that she could get up, that playfully mischievous smile slowly spreading across her small features with a surprising grace; with Gérard seated as he was, they were just at eye-level. "Would your highness do _me_ the honor, then?"

The prince balked. "You can't possibly be serious! You can't even watch to avoid me – or the other dancers, for that matter!"

"Nonsense; I can hear the steps clearly and directionally at close-range. I was taught to judge my surroundings largely by echolocation in Rebma, and the practice still serves well enough in Castle Amber. Besides, I have an idea." Groping through the air, she found his muscle-bound arm, then his left hand.

The lady would clearly not be put off, even for her own good. Gérard resigned himself, shoving out his own chair without assistance, standing, taking her hand properly in the crook of his arm, leading her down to the floor where more than a few surprised glances shot his way, the other dancers giving him an almost embarrassing amount of space!

To the prince's surprise, Vialle turned to face him and, ever-so-carefully, stepped up on the toe-boxes of his large leather boots, feeling where they were first with her thin embroidered slippers!

"There; now you _can't_ step on me, and it will be easy for me to follow," she smiled up at him broadly, still gripping his forearms so that she wouldn't fall off. "Although this would be easier if you held me in 'waltz' stance – that is what it is called, is it not?"

Gérard could hardly believe what she was doing, but her giddiness was infectious, and for a second time he found himself envying his little brother as his large right hand wrapped cautiously about her back – she was warm – and he took her right hand in his upturned left, with her other arm resting gently upon his.

"And not too big of steps," she warned, still smiling. "Your natural gait is far larger than mine!"

It wasn't quite the blind leading the blind, but Gérard was still chuckling in spite of himself as he slowly made his way through the basic steps, totally out-of-sync with the music and the other dancers and not minding the fact for once. A few measures later someone in the orchestra must've noticed them, for the tune in progress stopped on an obol and was quickly supplanted with a slowed-down Viennese waltz, to match the prince's tempo!

The only thing lovelier than that haunting foreign melody was the look of unabashed delight that lit up the lady's face when it happened.

_She really_ _is_ _beautiful_ , the prince found himself thinking; Vialle was illuminated golden in the broad torchlight of the hall, the shadows accentuating her unusually high cheekbones and brow, the slight curve in her small nose, her lustrously dark, focusless eyes looking right through him as if she danced with a ghost in a dream-world…

He couldn't get the visual out of his head that night after he'd gone to bed, the feel of her lithe frame in his arms, the _warmth_ … He knew it was logistically preposterous; if he so much as accidentally rolled over, he would literally crush the lady to death!

… where had _that_ thought come from?!

Gérard's night was quickly concluded with _much_ heavier drinking, followed by a very late rising the following day… along with the vague memory of dreaming of dark eyes that could see his _soul_ …

Things started getting more awkward from there. On the subsequent nights of the feast, the prince notably abstained from the wine altogether – and the dance floor. The general assumption was a rather simple and obvious one on the surface: that the later events of the first night had merely embarrassed him. He was deliberately staying clear-headed in order to be a good host.

But the practice continued long after the celebration was concluded, and the 'out-of-town' guests all returned home. And when Gérard _did_ drink, it was fitful, private, and hard, usually liquor of some kind, straight. It gradually began to affect his sleeping, so that he rose later and later, and the regent's business appointments and judicial hearings were by necessity pushed out of the morning slots and on into the afternoon and evening, sometimes well into the night. And it was not only his total sobriety that was notable in his daytime appearances, but a special brand of tenseness, of self-censure, as if he were terrified to drop his guard for a single moment for fear of what someone might see there.

And he was _very_ careful that he was never alone when he visited with Lady Vialle. It was easy enough to arrange: a servant or a ladies' maid always within eye-or-earshot, Lord Rein invited (a bit forcefully) to join them at the Castle for main meals again. Aside of his change in operating hours, nothing in the prince's outward behavior in public could possibly be construed as objectionable; it merely seemed that the strain of his position was beginning to weigh upon him more heavily in the prolonged absence of his family – of any personal equal in help or assistance – and that sailing the ship of state alone was a burden not to be envied.

The lady in question guessed at the truth of the matter sooner rather than later, however. While she had never employed any device such as a cane to help her get around, Vialle had learned her way about the palace mostly by feel and smell and sound: carpet or marble tiling, stone corridor or wooden banisters – she had had the time to memorize rather significant portions of the layout. It was how she had found her way alone, slowly and carefully, up to the king's chamber late one evening to ask Gérard a question that had occurred to her during their evening meal, a matter pertaining to the kingdom that she did not deem suitable for the ears of Lord Rein for it had to do with how the titled nobility were currently taxed in accordance to who had made what promises and acts of honor or subservience to the Crown over the centuries; the system really had gotten to be quite a mess, even if it was a stable mess. The prince was finally in just the position to do something positive with it.

Gérard was widely known to occupy the king's apartments at night anymore, allegedly because the volume of legal paperwork which he studied before retiring was too massive for even the majority of the salient files to be relocated to his own smaller quarters (which was likely true – and it was not in the prince's nature to lie, even in small matters.) When the lady arrived, she was a little surprised to find the double-doors carved with the Unicorn standing haphazardly ajar; she knocked once anyway, before entering the 'living room'.

"Gérard? Are you in there?"

A faint, scoffed laugh that nearly sounded like a sob came quietly back to her from the middle section of the suite.

"Am I here? Where the hell else would I _be_?" Another bitter chuckle – followed by the sound of something made of glass being smashed against the fire-grate.

"I can well understand your desire for greater freedom as you were accustomed to before, as well as more varied company than a woman," she began again politically, "but sometimes it makes it more difficult for me to act in the capacity as your private advisor when I can never speak with you _privately_. Perhaps we could arrange for a specific time-"

" _Vialle_ ," he slurred, cutting her off, "I advise you to go to _bed_ – go dream of your husband. Whatever it is can _wait_."

The odd phrase stopped the lady in her tracks on the undyed woolen rug in the private receiving area. "Gérard, what is the matter? Why are you doing this to yourself?" she suddenly worked up the nerve to ask. "Tell me."

Another smash – _much_ louder.

"I am in no state to be polite. Save your silly questions. Leave while you _can_."

It was the lady's turn to sigh, but the sound held a pity that poured salt in the prince's growing emotional wound. "I do not fear you, your highness, even like _this_ ; you know yourself well enough," she groped for the dividing wall, the open doorway that led into the next section.

"Perhaps you _should_ ," the prince answered darkly from where he was sprawled out in the high-backed chair by the fireplace, the shards of the empty Glenlivit bottle sprayed across the bearskin rug in front of it; he'd missed and the stupid thing had ricocheted off the front of the grate instead of behind it.

"A hurricane does not an ocean make – is this not so, Gérard?"

"You've no idea," he was still murmuring, not hearing her, "the things I can _do_ to a woman… how they all scream and _scream_ at the end…"

He heard a slow, ragged gasp behind him and belatedly realized that he had said the thought aloud – that he had betrayed his own confidence… and _her_ trust. Shaming himself irreparably.

"Get out, just _go!_ " he made no attempt to hide the sobbing in his voice.

"I will see you tomorrow," the lady stated calmly and firmly, "when you are yourself once more."

She made sure to close the doors properly on her way back out.

The following afternoon came way too soon for the hapless prince, the previous night blurred in an alcoholic haze, the unmistakable feeling of imminent doom the only remaining impression of what was likely a horrible debacle of some kind.

Vialle had specifically asked at breakfast that he meet with her in the rose gardens before dinner – between cases – and he was somewhat alarmed to find her already there alone without her ladies' maid (whom he had grown accustomed to thinking of as her 'seeing eye' dog), sitting on the stone bench in front of the sundial, waiting for him. Upon hearing his big boots crunching the gravel walkway, she raised her head in his direction.

"Won't you have a seat, your highness?" she patted the empty bench next to her.

Gérard took a deep breath, carefully depositing his muscular weight beside her petite form. "Vialle… I cannot begin to apologize enough for whatever might have happened last night – I can barely even remember it myself! If I said or did anything untoward, can you please forgive me? I promise I will _never_ get drunk alone like that ever again!"

To his frank surprise (and more than a little nervous misgiving), the lady took his big right hand between her small delicate ones, her thin expressive brows furrowed.

"Gérard, how long have you been harboring some manner of attraction towards me?"

The prince was stunned silent, as if a bucket of cold seawater had been unexpectedly dashed over him! He swallowed a couple of times, his mouth suddenly gone dry, his tongue refusing to form comprehensible words! After a couple of false starts, he gave a dejected, exhausted sigh of surrender.

The lady only nodded, a wry little smile forming on her thin, petal-pale lips. "I think it is just your present situation: the isolation, the stress. I have heard that similar things can happen when two people of compatible physical sex are stranded alone together in a harsh shadow-environment because they grow to depend upon each other to such a high degree, even if they started out hating one another. It is only a sort of survival instinct you are experiencing, perhaps. Would you not agree?"

She was offering him an _out_ , bless her for the saint that she was, but Gérard knew he didn't deserve an out. He didn't _want_ one. He brought his left hand over, to hold _her_ hands in _his_.

"You are the only woman I have ever met who has cared more about _who_ I am than about _what_ I am, and I think it is because you yourself know what it is to be judged like that," he said quietly. "You always see _inside_ me." He bent down and placed a light kiss upon the top of her head, making her blush a little.

"Perhaps you have only been searching the wrong shadows for a mate," Vialle laughed a little self-consciously. "You should try Rebma at your leisure, when the others return; we are a kind, easy-going people on the whole. I am merely a quick study when it comes to human psychology; there are true empaths to be found in the underwater city, people who could read you in an instant like a book – the whole picture all at once, no guessing, no prejudiced misconceptions."

_It isn't the same thing as_ _caring_ , the prince thought, but he wasn't sure that he should say so aloud. "I will remember," he said instead. "My brother caught a good bride there, no question."

The lady smiled again at the compliment in spite of herself. " _I_ will not forget this either, Gérard… and I will do my best not to tempt you further as it lies within my power to do so. But neither do I want you hurting yourself because you feel you have to hide this from me. You need not fear: I am not judging you for this; I won't tell a soul. But I _will_ expect you to maintain your propriety in the future; as you just now observed, I am not a free woman to be courted."

"Of course not, Vialle," the prince flushed in shame. "I know that."

" _Good_ , because I enjoy spending time with you as a friend, and I would hate for that to be ruined," she replied, coming to her feet. "Now, if you would be so kind as to steer me toward my medicine garden, I believe I have just the combination of herbs for your… nerves, to help you to better unwind at night without the extra alcohol. I will show you how they are harvested, and the tincture prepared utilizing a small spell to speed up the distillation process…"

_The_ _tincture_ _…_ It had been an age since the prince had even thought of the small brown apothecary bottle and its mysterious contents that was locked carefully away in the trunk in his quarters. _If the time comes…_ He briefly wondered if Vialle would be able to identify just what all was in it, but almost immediately changed his mind: knowing Dworkin, the potion likely carried some manner of spell as well, probably a powerful aphrodisiac. It would be ill-advised to expose an unwitting shadow-person to such a compound even in passing, not knowing what all it would do. King or no king, at least Castle Amber still had a skilled pharmacist, the prince thought, watching Vialle carefully stoop to pinch off a few different pungent, leafy stalks – including one with small yellow buds – gingerly carrying them back inside in the folds of her skirt so as not to waste any of their precious oils.

It took only twelve days – until the next ngan – for the herbal potion to do its job well enough that Gérard no longer needed it in order to relax in his own company with his thoughts, gradually resuming his more normal mode of living, which included moderate consumption of wine at meals as before. Of course, a fair portion of this recovery was also likely due to the fact that the pressure in regard to the situation with Random's wife had been greatly reduced (although he had to keep reminding himself of the fact, envisaging his little brother looking supremely pissed, possibly ready to shoot him in the back with a crossbow). That Vialle could be so accepting and forgiving of even his open attraction toward her felt nothing short of miraculous to the prince – that she wasn't offended or put off, but graciously acknowledged his deference, his attentiveness, without flirting with him or encouraging him further, rewarding his outward restraint by being at her own ease in his company. Gérard also gradually came to realize that he had not been the only one in desperate need of a confidante, someone to freely talk to. The lady began to open up about what her life in Rebma had been like, what her marriage to Random was like in certain respects, some of which information was simply stunning to the prince; he knew he would never be able to look at his youngest brother quite in the same old light again. But it didn't serve to make him any less envious – and the lady could tell anymore without him having to say a single word.

"Are you yet so determined to play Sir Lancelot, your highness?" she gently chided him about it one afternoon.

"Lancelot and Guinevere? Nay, I am ill-suited to the part," he good-humoredly demurred… but surreptitiously took and kissed the back of her hand anyway; they were alone momentarily.

"May I ask you a rather impertinent question, Gérard?"

"Of course," he quietly chuckled, scooting closer on the trestle-bench they currently shared.

"How old are you?"

The prince blinked, genuinely surprised. "About five-hundred and some years, I suppose; with the way we travel it's impossible to know for sure. Why do you ask?"

"I merely wanted a general idea of how long it would be reasonable to wait for the others to return, for Random…"

Gérard ashamedly let go of her… but she surprised him as she reached for him again, found him.

"We must _both_ continue to pray and to hope, for all our sakes. For… for _now_ ," her voice finally broke on her.

She had never once complained, never let on for a single moment until just now how terribly she was missing her husband!

_How could I have been so selfish?! So nearsighted?!_ The prince angrily derided himself, passing his left arm about her shoulders; he felt her turn toward him, shedding silent tears into the material of his gray velvet jacket, almost imperceptibly shaking. After some time had gone by, she self-consciously wiped at her useless eyes, tasting the salty water of her tears on her tongue.

"You know, the only times that I truly find myself homesick for Rebma are the few times I have really cried here, on dry land," she forced a little self-deprecating laugh. "Even 'landers' seem to have a place like the undersea kingdom inside of them: a place of light and love far below the surface… and saltwater."

Gérard said not a word, his other arm wrapping around, careful not to squeeze her too tightly, releasing his own saltwater into their shared ocean…

Eleven years gone. Fifteen, sixteen without word, without sign. The twentieth anniversary commemoration of Patternfall was painful for the both of them (and not just from the feasting), although the citizenry of the True World and the Golden Circle seemed to be becoming accustomed to the idea of Gérard ruling Amber… with Vialle at his side. It should've seemed scandalous (and likely would've been treated so) were it not for the peculiar circumstances under which they were all still living. And – at least in public, where it counted – outward decorum still prevailed. It _was_ difficult to deny that the lady was charming, intelligent, and almost intuitively disarming: all qualities that made for an excellent queen, besides being physically healthy and attractive enough for her type. (Gérard, in contrast, while sort of handsome in a rather rugged fashion, was no Eric, who could've passed for a model or a soap opera actor on Shadow Earth.) The prince had politely but firmly declined any and all political matches that involved himself over the years (to a wide mixture of reactions on the part of the ladies in question, everything from wound-up sexual frustration to a profound relief, depending on whose idea it had _really_ been), stating that he had no intention of consolidating his position unless word were ever gained from the black field of battle that he must. And it was only too clear who was already chosen for his queen if this was the case. Gossip of the prince's adulterous inclinations reached as far as the ears of Moire, queen of Rebma, who surprised Gérard with an unplanned impromptu conference call via trump over a handful of rather trivial-seeming affairs early one morning; the monarch seemed oddly satisfied as if she had come to some sort of decision by the end of it, her parting remarks every bit as vague a gesture of goodwill as anything that had transpired between them in the twenty minutes prior, leaving Gérard with the uneasy feeling of having just aced a pop quiz when he wasn't even certain what its subject had been!

"You _would_ be the last to know," Lord Rein remarked to him privately after the prince's regular wresting match with Hazkhar (who was, rather, benefiting from studying some of Benedict's old aikido manuals instead; the eastern style suited his long, lean physique far better than Greco-Roman grappling.) It had been raining something fierce (which still made a few citizens bless themselves anymore), and so the bout had been held in the Castle's gymnasium.

"What _are_ you talking about?" Gérard put to Rein irritably, toweling off before putting back on his tunic and dress-jacket. He still had a stack of paperwork to go through, addendums to a half-dozen trade treaties that needed to be officially signed off on before-

"Forgive me, my lord, but I must say that you aren't exactly the most discreet man in the world when it comes to… shall we say, matters of the heart."

"Meaning _what_?" the prince defensively snapped, thrusting his shirt on over his head.

"Meaning that, unlike your lady-love, the servants and retinue of Castle Amber are not blind, and they certainly aren't mute. Take it from a career minstrel: gossip spreads faster than plague in the working classes, often due to the fact that those blessed to be higher-born tend to unconsciously write off their staff as if they were part of the furniture. You employ men and women to stand outside your doors, to be within earshot should they be needed; can you blame them for hearing what goes on inside?"

"What exactly are you attempting to accuse me of, Fletcher?" Gérard was irritatedly working the tiny latch-hooks that ran up the full front of his silken, sky-blue jacket; he could _just_ manage them, with his large fingers.

"I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, my friend," Rein sighed, "merely pleading with you to be more careful when it comes to your time openly spent with the Lady Vialle."

There was fire behind Gérard's blue eyes as he glanced down at the man. "Friend or no, you have no right to speak ill of my brother's wife, of her _flawless_ reputation. Let _that_ get around."

"I do not doubt your word," the knighted minstrel uttered in placatory tones (for he knew enough of this prince to not wish to risk accidentally raising his ire!) "Hell, if it wasn't for the fact that the lady is already married, I'd say it was an excellent match of opposites. Even now I can't imagine anyone saying boo to you as things stand; you're doing a fantastic job running the kingdom and you're currently temperate in all of your other habits – I dare say you are doing better than even the late king was toward the end there in certain respects. This is _friendly_ advice: whatever it is you are thinking in regards to Vialle, _slow down_. The lady may very well be a widow already and we simply do not know of it, but I wouldn't bank on the assumption just yet. You guys have a way of seemingly coming back from the dead after huge periods of time in a fashion that borders on looking religious even to the citizens of the True World. If it turns out that circumstances are as we have feared, I have no doubt that the union would instantly receive Moire's blessing. The lady in question is well-liked here, too, as far as I can tell; she would receive the support of the court. Just…"

The prince seriously considered the man for a moment, readjusting his belt with the rest of the material tucked behind it. "Don't be alone with her, you mean? At least not when any of the servants or the guard know where we are?" He suddenly realized how covert that sounded coming out of his mouth just now and had to ruefully smile, nodding. "Alright, point taken – you're a good man, Fletcher," he lightly clasped Rein's shoulder on their way back out. "You know that's all you had to say. You would think the whole nation is filled with Barimens, with how suspicious our people's imaginations would seem to be when it comes to certain things."

"Consider the precedent," Rein remarked quietly through lightly gritted teeth as they strode down the hall together; they were hardly alone. "It's probably a small miracle that the country _isn't_ 'all Barimen', with the way your father got around in his youth."

"To say nothing of his sons," the prince sighed, turning in at the king's apartments to pick up the treaties in question, "although our lack of brood is likely more medical than spiritual, if something Dworkin told me before he left is true of our line…"

Nevertheless, the prince took the castle minstrel's words to heart and did his best to outwardly rectify the situation by his own way of thinking… by spending time with Vialle _publicly_ , whether that meant entertaining foreign ambassadors side-by-side, or making sure that there were several ladies-in-waiting from amongst Amber's upper crust almost constantly in attendance upon the lady, as had been the custom of the princesses of the realm, to act as a social court for them, to enforce the idea that nothing improper could possibly be going on between them. Of course, the upshot to all this visual manipulation was the reinforcement of the impression that Gérard was all-but courting a married woman in earnest. Vialle had the grace, humor, and goodwill to take her circumstances in the stride, knowing that for better or worse the prince meant her no harm; quite the opposite, really. (If Lord Rein was cringing – and he most assuredly was – at least _he_ was doing so privately where no one would see _him_.) Vialle began to quietly capitalize on her unexpected entry into the Amberite limelight, arranging charity events for struggling artists of various mediums, concerts for the general public that anyone could attend, and very nearly put the True City's apothecary out-of-business by accident, her tinctures, tisanes and balms of rare shadow-herbs sold so well! But the situation was put to rights as soon as she heard of the problem, with her signing a standard merchants' agreement which would allow the original apothecary to sell _her_ concoctions, in return paying her a percentage of the profits.

It was the lady's position as secret advisor to the current regent that was causing both her and the prince some trouble; Gérard had inadvertently made it incredibly difficult for them to speak in private at all for any reason. In fact, the prince was forced to arrange (via Fletcher) for the lady to spend time alone in a specific sitting room, reading books with raised lettering that were beginning to be manufactured in the Golden Circle – a novelty in and of itself – then, when the coast was clear, to duck through a hidden panel beside the bookcase to the left, into another smaller sitting room (which was locked from the inside for safety's sake), where the prince would wait for her once every six days, in the early evening. Those meetings by their very nature were furtive and often intense, for they had to be accomplished with haste before either of them were missed; Vialle often had pages of notes stuck in her pocket, written on paper with raised lines to guide her blind pen-strokes; she would thrust them into the prince's waiting hands the moment she was through, for they were composed in the manner of business minutes, what was most pressing to discuss that night. To Gérard's dismay, the very time constraint imposed and the anticipation served to excite him further, as much as he did his best to hide it, even to the point of taking a nip or two of the calming tincture before heading down to do this.

He _was_ anxious – that he wouldn't be able to keep going like this, that he wouldn't be able to keep his desire in check forever. The thought shamed him; at least the lady could not see the proof of it…

'The lady' could _hear_ , however – the gossipy tittering of her ladies-in-waiting, the well-wishes of strangers from afar, the tension in Lord Rein's vocal chords of late when he performed for them. The twenty-first commemoration was coming up the next ngan and the city was already making preparations to be swamped with visitors; it had become Amber's first unofficial intershadow holiday, complete with immense shopping sprees, the brainchild of the shadow-trade minister, after the fashion of the consumer frenzy that occurred around winter solstice in more distant worlds. The nobles of the realm were making not-so-subtle hints to the prince that they would back his ascension to the throne, along with the queen of his choosing, that he out of all of his brothers had always placed loyalty to Amber before all else, as evinced by his appointment as official regent. That perhaps enough time had gone by…

Perhaps. Perhaps. It was an evil thought, a thought which was entirely beneath him, and yet the idea kept haunting Gérard at night, in the daytime, during those evening visits. Vialle's required year-long marriage contract to Random had been overspent by twenty-three years, counting the ones she shared in the castle dungeon with him after his attempted assassination of Eric. She deserved better than that, than to pine away her prime years of life for a wayward husband who would likely never return, battlefield or no, given the prince's long-debauched history. It would be easy to obtain the necessary annulment from Queen Moire; Random had sired no children by the lady, and she needed not be subject to any physical examination. Vialle still did not seem put off by Gérard's attentions big or small, dare he think it, genuinely enjoying his company, his _presence_. She could see the true man behind the frame, the mounds of muscle, and never passed judgment on him even for caring for her. She was sympathetic to his state of mind – of heart – he was _sure_ of it! He had learned to be physically gentle with her from leading her about all these years, mindful of what she could not mind herself without aid, protective of that slight fair body so that she would not stumble.

Perhaps he _could_ be gentle enough with her, to not harm her. _Perhaps…_

Perhaps he was just losing his mind – isolated, lonely, _desperate_ , trying to fill the terrible hole caused by the loss of his entire family by wanting one of his own to start over with. If only there were some way of _knowing_! If only he could truly grieve them and be done with the wretched mess so that he could get on with his life! It wasn't fair to either of them. As much as Vialle had become his safe place, he sincerely wished that she could claim the same of him, but knew it wasn't so, feeling the burden he forced her to carry along with her own. If only he could make it right! He could take such good care of her, he _knew_ he could!

If only…

If only she couldn't see straight through his internal struggle.

"You have been unusually quiet and terse for the past four days," she casually observed aloud one evening during their regularly scheduled meeting. "What is on your mind? Tell me, so that you may be at ease. You seemed happy enough during the festivities, moreso than even a year past… what has _changed_?"

"Nothing changes, Vialle; it has become the bane of my existence," the prince carefully schooled his voice into calm neutrality. Caine would've been proud of him.

"You _lie_ ," she quietly accused him aloud for the first time, "and it is not like you. But I know from others that your face always tells the truth: show me," she got up from her chair and reached out with her pale delicate hands… in the direction of his voice! The prince was both taken aback by the gesture and unwontedly excited by the idea of her voluntarily touching his face; she had _never_ done this in all the years they had lived together. She had not found knowing precisely what he looked like beyond a basic description necessary! Until now…

Trying to calm his unruly pulse, Gérard guided those small, soft fingertips to his features, closing his eyes, forcing himself to keep breathing as he felt her tracing his worry creases, the length of his brow, the depth of the set of his eyes, the shape of the bridge of his nose, the strength of his square jaw, the roughness of his short beard, his lips – he automatically kissed her fingertips in passing; it happened so quickly that he almost didn't realize what he was doing until it was in progress, and by then he couldn't stop himself, rapturously tasting her sweet-fragranced flesh before she pulled away with a sharp gasp, his own large hands reaching up to hold her finely-boned face instead, stroking her smooth, warmly blushing cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

"Oh, _Gérard_ ," she sighed sadly – but it was the fondness in that sadness that cut him to the quick as she gently but firmly caught his wrists, taking a step back from his touch, "why do you torment yourself so? You know that I intend to wait."

The prince caught her hands before she could retreat further. "How long can you _afford_ to wait, Vialle?" the question softly rumbled in his great chest. "If you can forgive my asking. I never made any great study of the lifespan of native Rebmans, if there were any difference between the dark and fair groupings. You doubtless know the tragic story of my own mother, how brief her happiness was; she was quickly growing old before I even saw fifteen summers. My father had no right to leave her – she left us all too soon as it was – but I have never been able to shake the seeming transience of existence for those of Shadow in comparison to those of us born with the strength and the endurance of our Pattern. A physical century for one of the Unicorn is like a decade for one of many shadows, even if we still feel the time in our minds. I would not have you pine away the happy years of your youth for…" The prince swallowed, suddenly censoring himself, feeling just how much he had _really_ said even in the following silence.

The lady was still as a breathing statue, as one of her own sculptures, ominously quiet for the span of perhaps a minute before forcefully stepping out of his grasp altogether, groping for the high back of her chair, depositing her folded notes upon its cushioned seat.

"You should have sent me away," she stated at last, calmly and firmly. "It is not too late to do so, your highness. My ladies can pack what little I will require for the journey back to Rebma in the morning; I shall not be needing my clothing, and the books would be ruined. Good night." She felt her way toward the hidden panel.

Gérard was on his feet in an instant, at her side the next. "Vialle, _please_!" his voice shook with his emotions. "Please tell me what I must do, what I can do to make you happy! I swear on my life I would never do anything that would dishonor you!"

The lady paused for only a moment. "Do your duty to your country, then; I am perfectly capable of looking after myself," she whispered, slipping away out of the room.

Out of his life.

Of all the bone-headed, rash, stupid – yes, _stupid_ – things he could've… Gérard gave a strangled inarticulate cry of anguished rage, unthinkingly punching the stone wall in front of him, leaving the slightest of cracks in the mortar, fighting back tears he did not deserve. He had just ruined _everything_. There would be no going back from this, no pretending it wasn't real, not for _her_ …

He didn't deserve her. A man such as himself was made for the coarse things of life, working and fighting and so forth, not… He should've _never_ dreamed that–

The abrupt feeling of a shockwave ripping through the room interrupted his furiously morose self-loathing! The sensation hadn't been _physical_ , he realized a second later… It had-

Gentle, blue-glowing equine eyes suddenly filled his vision, his whole mind, his very _being_ with love and warmth…

And the next moment he was consciously back in the room again! There was an unmistakable coolness in the breastpocket of his dress-jacket now… followed by the all-too-familiar sensation of a well-known mischievous mind reaching out to him, a feeling he had feared he would never feel again: a trump-call! His little brother Random abruptly flared to life in his mind's eye, as if he were standing before him, half-armored as he had seen him last over twenty years ago, albeit definitely more disheveled!

"Gérard!" the 'young' prince hailed him with an impish grin. "Growing soft in the good old lap of Amberite luxury are you, you lucky bastard! Just look at you, all silks and velvets!" he gave an insolent snort of a laugh. "How long have we been gone?"

"It has been years, over two decades!" Gérard astonishedly replied; he could see a garishly striped, star-stippled sky behind his brother! "Did we…"

"Yeah, we won alright; you missed one hell of a fireworks display and sideshow, too, and I'm sure you'll be hearing all about it soon enough, but first bring me home!"

Random had scarce said the words before his big brother hauled him through the portal – and scooped him up in a Gérard-sized bear-hug, his previously unshed tears streaming down his cheeks… in relief!

" _Oof_! … hey, yay us… alright, alright, I guess I kind of missed you, too, you big sentimental lunk, now put me down before you break something important like my _spine_!" Random rapidly gasped out; he got set back on his feet, panting lungfuls of air as Gérard embarrassedly wiped away the moisture on his face. "You realize that's the last time you get to manhandle your rightful king like that," he pointed a finger up at him in only half-mock accusation, his pale eyes merry. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again without my permission, I could have you arrested!"

"What?! _How_?!"

It was only then that Gérard noticed that Random's left hand had been closed in a tight fist this entire time; the kid-gloved fingers presently opened… revealing the Jewel of Judgment!

"It would seem the Unicorn prefers blondes after all," he teased him. "And I suppose the rest of you _are_ all getting a bit long in the tooth, comparatively-speaking. Guess She wanted to make sure She had a king who would be around for a long time to come. The others have all sworn their fealty already – will you?"

"Random, if this is another of your pranks-"

" _Random_?" a faltering female voice interrupted them.

"Vialle!" The slight man made a mad dash around the furniture for the opening panel to embrace his wife with a passionate kiss! Gérard turned away, suddenly terribly self-conscious… then discreetly bent and picked up the lady's notes from where she had left them, while no one was looking, folding them into his outer jacket pocket – before another face invaded his mind, the visage both respected and loved: Benedict!

"Greetings brother – will you grant me safe passage to Amber?"

The tall, lanky, earnest man was through the portal in a breath; Gérard clasped him to himself briefly in a far more restrained and mature fashion as befitted his eldest brother, in better control of his feelings again.

"Welcome back, warrior," he hailed him warmly, patting him on the back before letting him go. "How did we fare? Did we lose many men?"

"The battle went well overall; our father's planning was superb. We suffered losses, of course, but they appear very small to me now in comparison to the great blow we have leveled our old rival with. I myself stood in the tower of darkness, overseeing the drafting of the Concord of peace between Chaos and Order, which both Random and the ancient monarch of the Abyss, a demon-man named Swayvil, jointly signed, with what was left of their court standing in attendance and all the surviving troops of both sides gathered outside in a great paved way called the Plaza at the End of the World."

Benedict paused for a moment, as if seeing it all again in solemn wonder… then lowered his warm brown eyes. "We lost Deirdre," he said simply; Gérard closed his own eyes in sorrow. "I was not present when it happened, but from what I have heard I am convinced that it was a genuine accident, not malice, and that the slight suffering she experienced before her end she returned in kind upon its causant. I have no doubt that you will hear the full account from one of the others, but remember that it is useless to hate the dead under any circumstances," he added sternly but gently. Benedict of old had taken it upon himself to be as much a father to some of his younger siblings when he was present than their true father had been; Gérard nodded, meeting his eyes again, his own misty. "But take heart: we may have lost a sister, but we have regained a _brother_ – 'twas Caine who shot the traitor, sending his mortal remains toppling end over end into the Abyss to his final destruction. The rogue came disguised in full armor in Julian's battalion; they trumped out together shortly before we contacted you. Bleys remains behind along with the girls, to help our remaining troops leap to closer shadows to Amber so that they do not lose as much time upon their return journey. The entire army simply cannot come through whatever coat closet Caine must've arranged for his own comings and goings," the corners of the prince's serious mouth turned upwards for the briefest of moments before they dropped again. "Once Bleys contacts me that they are ready, his majesty and I shall bring them through into the outer courtyard below." Benedict _did_ smile then. "Why don't you go on up and see Caine? I am sure he will want to talk with you. Random and I can take it from here," he stated positively, sparing a glance for his youngest brother, who was murmuring sweet promises in his wife's ears, kissing away her tears of joy, naming her his queen…

Gérard needed no further impetus. He quickly strode across the room, unlocked the door, and tore off down the hall. He could hear Random shouting after him sarcastically that he had permission to withdraw, followed by something about being forced to give his oath in public if he failed to come back, but the prince didn't care as he dashed up the back servants' stairs three at a time, up to his older brother's room on the second floor, opening the unlocked door-

A pile of recently discarded musky-smelling, bloodied green-enameled plate armor stood in the sitting area off the large woven rug on the plain stone flooring, along with a gory mace. Gérard had to smile a little at the sight: deceptive or no, his oldest blood-brother had clearly acquitted himself well on the field of battle.

"I will expect you to knock in the future," Caine called imperiously from around the corner, thinking he was addressing a nosy servant, "but you may take my armor and my weapon down for cleaning and polishing, but _not_ storage; I shall keep them up here. Bring them straight back when the job is finished."

"Alas, I am more skilled at bloodying arms than cleaning them myself," Gérard bemusedly replied, a playful tone creeping into his voice, "but I suppose I could give it a try if you really want me to."

A dark-haired, dark-eyed, deeply tanned face popped through the open doorway – and a haughty, self-satisfied smirk spread out across the singularly handsome features.

"Gérard," he greeted his brother with his name. "I suppose you got used to opening any door you pleased without so much as a by-your-leave as acting regent; it must've been _nice_. You might as well come in, but I'm still getting cleaned up and changed; just drop the bolt on the door behind you," he disappeared again.

Gérard shook the sudden peculiar déjà vu-like feeling as he did so, wandering into the small apartment, looking at the old naval campaign maps Caine had mounted on his walls like paintings. "How did you ever _do_ it?" he muttered quietly, more to himself than to his sly brother, but Caine overheard him.

"Have you ever gone looking for yourself, Gérard?" That Reynardine-type quality had entered his voice, a more subdued, saner version of their grandsire. Only Caine and _Brand_ had inherited it… "The practice has grown rather popular on Shadow Earth, I have learned, and you have been there more recently than I."

"I cannot say that I ever saw the point. I am to take it that you _did_ , in a literal fashion? That you found one of your doubles – and killed him?"

"Quite so, and it is an experience I would _not_ recommend; it feels like proxy suicide. But it had unfortunately become necessary, with such dangerous piles of shit as some of our brothers coming back to befoul Amber's fair waters and clean ethers. It was the only way I could keep track of everyone without notice: if it was thought I was dead. I had special trumps drawn of one of the sea-caves that links up with the Castle dungeons and the room with the Pattern, and another of one of the storage rooms on the fourth floor so that I didn't have to embark upon the great trial just to access my apartments here in secret. I had become sufficiently paranoid to not make a direct one of my own bedroom, for fear that our adversary might use it as a trap while I was busy staking out other princes' wardrobes with my dagger at the ready."

Gérard stopped in his tracks. "You _didn't_."

"I _did_. All of them, even the one with you all present. I could've saved the family Brand's huge melodramatic scene at the end of Patternfall, but no, you just _had_ to save him, had to nurse him back to health, had to protect him when it would've been so easy for me to finish the job. I had narrowed it down to him or Corwin, and I couldn't tell which of them it was until almost the end."

"Corwin is _your_ enemy for whatever private reasons you have, not _ours_ ," the prince seriously rejoindered – then realized. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Off touring hell with his adult bastard son, I gather; a good place for him. If he has any shred of decency, he'll get himself good and lost afterwards in the new multiverse he made in his own image – just like Brand would've, if he could've gotten away with it, blast him! Have you ever hated someone simply because they seem to do everything you could _never_ get away with? Perhaps you would understand better at least some of my animosity toward him."

' _Hate' might be too strong a word_ , the prince mused, thinking of the lady downstairs once more before forcing the thoughts from his mind. "But how did you know so well what was going on without _being_ here, with no confidante or agent?"

"I suspect the real reason Dworkin never fully educated us about the trumps is because if he had, we would've destroyed most of the old decks between the lot of us in mock 'voodoo' rites as children! I am no gifted psychic, Gérard, but my own deck came in… useful; I even looked in on you from time to time, to see what you were up to. You can come in now if you want," Caine casually added, with the light skritch of wooden chair-legs scraping against stone flooring; Gérard sauntered over. His elder brother was still only half-dressed, albeit cleanly and covered: black silken hose with a tight, sleeveless cotton undershirt, his sweaty armor-padding and clothing from the battle in a pile beside the table at which he currently sat attending his toilette; he was currently shaving over a small bowl of soapy water, watching his progress in a small stationary mirror.

"I contacted Julian before the battle, right around the time Dad finally deigned to put in an appearance," he continued without looking up. "I had some suspicions I wished to confirm, as well as wanting to pick his brain in a way I could not by simply studying his trump; I have not always trusted his intellect in all matters, but his 'horse-sense' is nearly flawless," he dunked the razor again. The sudden hurt tension in the room was suddenly so palpable that it could've been sliced with that blade as Gérard uncomfortably shuffled his feet a bit; Caine paused. "I thought briefly of contacting you, but you are entirely too tender-hearted; you wouldn't have been able to keep an intelligence like that to yourself for twenty-four hours, let alone the time it took to prepare all those men for battle. Your desire to succor 'innocent' suffering is too great for your own good," he finished, splashing his whole face clean with the water, running his wet hands through his thick, glossy sable hair before toweling dry, tying it back in a short tight ponytail, standing up, regarding his brother. "That heart might've gotten you killed out there," he added quietly before crossing to his clothing trunk, selecting a fine silken tunic in a deep forest green with black accents and a jeweled belt to match, his signature green leather boots standing at the ready beside it, cleaned and polished against his return. "Ah well, things worked out the way they had to… and I have a _date_ ," he grinned up at Gérard devilishly, pulling on his boots and fetching his green three-cornered hat with the black-dyed ostrich plume: his trademark.

"You can't be serious! You're going to the Bayle estate unannounced at _this_ hour?! The baron will be furious, to say nothing of Vinta! She was in attendance at your funeral, for powers' sake!"

But the prince's smile only deepened, his dark eyes sparkling. "And that's not necessarily a bad thing with regards to the lady; a woman's ire is only misplaced passion, whose course can be corrected with the proper adjustment of tack – learn from your older brother now," he patted Gérard's arm in passing on his way to the sitting area.

Gérard shook his head in clear disapproval, catching Caine's upper-arm firmly. "How can you keep _doing_ this to yourself, to your reputation?! You have grown a tail many leagues in length as a rake; even in Shadow I myself have heard ballads warning young women of the fleeting charms of an immortal black-eyed wanderer from the sea, of the pining unto death! You could've had the bands on over sixty times by now!"

"And outlived forty-seven of them!" Caine roughly unhanded himself. "You think I am blind because I am brief-hearted toward the fair sex? I assure you, it is because I can _see_. Most die far too quickly – as our mother did – and they tend to become tiresome even sooner, the moment the word 'obligation' surfaces out of the murky depths where it belongs. Look around you: you don't see any of us settling down, not even our sisters."

"Random has – and happily too, I might remind you, the lucky dog," Gérard added with just a touch of good-humored envy. "And I think Corwin could again; you should've seen how he was acting with that Chaosian lady Dara, in the brief time that she was here."

But Caine simply scoffed. "Corwin is a fool and a narcissist who has forgotten the difference between Substance and Shadow. And Random will always work to cast himself as the black sheep, even now I'd wager, going so far as to be respectable while the rest of us enjoy ourselves."

"Is that what you call _this_?" Gérard quietly rebuked him. "A full bed but an empty heart? Your argument holds little water in the True City; a lady such as Vinta could live up to half your lifespan without showing any age at all and you _know_ it. Our existence is too tumultuous to never have a port to come home to beyond backbiting blood-kin and a drafty old fortress."

Caine turned, silently studying Gérard's blue eyes, his countenance giving away nothing… but he eventually quirked a knowing smirk. "You _have_ had time to spend with your own thoughts here in our absence. All right, I'll _consider_ it this time; now will you let me leave my own apartments, or do you require something in writing first?"

"Oh, don't bother the lady tonight; it will be enough of a shock when she's rested! Come have a few drinks on me, in the City. Like in the old days."

"You _do_ have cabin fever," the prince's smile turned devious once more, leaving many more words unsaid in his eyes… then he laughed. "And you _never_ drank with me in public when we were young – you thought me disreputable even back then!"

"Oh, come on! You just saved our entire multiverse single-handedly! If that isn't worth celebrating, I don't know what is!"

Those dark, suave brows rose a moment.

"Poor boy; we must save you from yourself, it would seem," the prince sighed. "But if you're going to insist on this, then we have to do it properly. Let's see if we can flush Julian out of _his_ quarters; he's probably still in there, preening like one of his falcons – he doesn't even have anyone to be doing it _for_!" Caine laughed derisively.

"Is not being a prince of Amber reason enough for a little vanity?" Gérard offered charitably.

Caine's taunting expression turned almost a little worried. "You _are_ too sober! It's high time we remedied that, then!" he walked out of the room, with his big little brother on his heels.

"I need to stop in my room first; I want to get out of this stupid, frou-frou _jacket_!" Gérard irritatedly yanked at the hook-and-eye enclosures, starting to undo them.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Caine observed, "but if you ever want help defacing that lacy confection of 'men's' formal wear in an accidental-looking way so that no one can ever force you to wear it again…"

Soon all three of Rilga's boys were trooping down the main staircase together, down the Main Hall, two of them cool as marble – one darker, one fairer of complexion – with a great warm slab of cement named Gérard holding the company together, with one big burly arm wrapped around each set of shoulders; Random saw them tramping by from the open doorway.

" _Gérard_!"

"I'll pledge first thing tomorrow with the rest of the castle guard!" he bellowed back.

"Done!"

The prince was unexpectedly struck with a fit of hearty laughter that didn't fully expend itself until they were past the portcullis, on the way down Concourse to one of the older taverns, with people cheering in their wake. Life was simply too absurd to take completely seriously, and Fortune was clearly as mad and giddy as Dworkin… like a stubborn wine stain, an unruly splotching of Chaos over an overly orderly existence.

There was no need to upset the proverbial produce cart. There was no reason to let on just how well he had really done as regent, how he had risen to the occasion, how intelligent he had proven to be… how close he had come to having everything he had never dared to even reach for, and more. He could continue to be who they needed him to be: conservative, reliable, slow, trusting old Gérard – navy man, soldier, ally. Friend.

He wouldn't have had it any other way.

Fin


End file.
